All the Things That Are Lost
by Lady Kate
Summary: Post-NFA. When Buffy discovers that Spike survived the destruction of Sunnydale, she heads to L.A. looking for answers, but her search will take her to a strange place that is more than a world away.
1. Chapter 1: Reveille

**Disclaimer:** The characters of "Buffy the Vampire Slayer" and "Angel" belong to Joss Whedon and Mutant Enemy. The original characters are my fault. :-) No copyright infringement intended, and as this is posted for free, and read for free, nobody is losing any money. Suing me won't make you any money either (haha! see my puny bank account!), so let's just not.

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**All the Things That Are Lost**

_Death was the gate  
And the long way was sorrow  
Love is the end.  
- from "Resurgam" by Marjorie L. C. Pickthall_

**Chapter 1 : Reveille**

Morning. Sunlight. Just her and the mirror, trying to sort out her hair before she went out to face the day. Shouldn't be this difficult, should it?

Mimicking an upsweep as she twisted her hair back behind her, Buffy paused to consider the style. Not so bad, she thought. But, eyeing the stray bits of hair she'd missed, and the increasing number of strands that were already working their way loose, she realized it might require more hand-eye coordination than she felt like mustering. It was too bad that her slayerly talents didn't automatically extend into other areas – like hair-styling. Would have come in handy.

Oh well, a ponytail would do. Wasn't like she had anywhere she had to be today.

The summer sun and heat had given her a strong case of not-going-to-work-itis. Normal people got to take vacations – so why not her? Of course, when she'd expressed that opinion, Dawn had pointed out that she didn't exactly work 40 hours a week, and that's why not her, but Buffy had decided to ignore that argument. After all, it wasn't like there was a shortage of slayers anymore. So she'd cancelled her few slayer-training sessions for the week, and had spent all of yesterday lounging about doing nothing, and passed the evening in dining and dancing. The agenda for today: sleep in late to recuperate (check!), get prettied up (in progress), and then maybe take Dawn and do some shopping? New shoes would be nice.

Buffy peered critically at her face. Lip gloss, she decided, rummaging through her cosmetics. Could definitely use some lip gloss.

For a moment, though, in the mirror, she caught her own eyes and paused. Sometimes… sometimes her eyes looked so old. Today, she decided, maybe they weren't so bad. The dark circles that she'd almost become accustomed to had faded over the last few months. And she'd actually gained back a little weight since settling in Rome – it was all the pasta, Dawn insisted, and was probably right – but it looked better on her than she would have expected. The hard edges of her face had eased, the sharp angles of her figure had softened ever so slightly.

People told her she'd never looked better. That she looked healthy now, that she looked happy now. They told her that they were happy for her.

She wished that she could be happy for herself.

She tried. She made a good imitation of it. Italy was beautiful, and Rome was wondrous. Light and sunshine and fountains and history and life. The city had captivated her on the first day she'd set foot within it, and the decision to stay had been an especially easy one. Once she'd found an apartment, she'd sent for Dawn, who had seemed to appreciate the change of scenery as much as Buffy had. She'd met the Immortal, who'd charmed her, chased her, made her feel young and attractive and special.

So she'd kissed him, and laughed, and worn the pretty clothing he bought for her. Suddenly kicking her heels up in stylish and not-at-all-affordable boots. It was a pleasant change. Did that make her shallow? Maybe it did. The kisses were given easily – the weight of his arm on her shoulders or about her waist was not burdensome. After all, there was no feeling beneath it. She smiled the flirtatious, charming smile of her youth, but her heart was empty. She wondered if he knew it – but then, she half-suspected he himself was empty on the inside. Maybe that was the attraction.

Or maybe she'd just been trying to prove something to herself. That life went on. She went on. And it hadn't been as difficult as she thought it would be.

Once upon a time, it would have been. Her heart had been broken before – it had fallen to pieces in a messy, tragic, melodramatic breakdown that no one could mistake. Now, though, the process was quieter, more subtle, veiled behind a stone facade. Everyone told her lies, they said she wasn't growing harder and colder, that she hadn't changed, but she knew the truth, even if no one would speak it to her – now, she knew that she was broken, but it wasn't the same kind of pain. Like spiderweb cracks reaching out all over a marble statue, but still it stood upright, held in place by its own weightiness. Broken in too many places to count, broken in too many places to hurt.

She'd changed. Not the kind of change that spurred growth, but a withering. In her inner self, she knew it.

But the past couldn't be changed, and the present was just the way things were. And her unquestioning acceptance of it was a resignation borne of too much bitterness and too few tears.

"Buffy?" A rapping on the door, and Dawn's voice calling out broke her introspection. "Are you still in there, or did you crawl out the window?"

"Out the window, of course," Buffy replied, a half-smile quirking at her lips in response, and she swiftly began to tidy up her cosmetics. "Only way to sneak past my nosy kid sister."

A snort. "I'm so not a 'kid sister' anymore," Dawn retorted. "I'm now officially 'a beautiful woman'."

"How do you figure?"

"Marco told me so yesterday."

"Hmph." Buffy really didn't understand the fuss Dawn made over Marco – the boy was dark-eyed and dreamy, absolutely; but on the downside, if he were any more 'personality-challenged', he'd be entitled to a handicapped parking spot. However, Buffy suspected the less said on the topic, the better. Last thing she needed was to unintentionally encourage Dawn to throw herself into a 'no one understands my misunderstood love' phase.

All the same, would it be so wrong to call up Willow and see if she had any objections to zapping him with some instant-acne spell? Just an eensy little true-love test – what could possibly be unethical about that? Then again – Willow and any kind of skin-spells – given her history, probably not a good mix.

"Buffy? Are you still alive in there?"

"Far as I can tell," Buffy replied. "I can still see my reflection, anyway."

"Always a good sign," Dawn laughed. "So, anyhow, not to interrupt your little 'Vanity Fair' routine, but we're out of bread, and… well, pretty much anything we'd need to make a sandwich or a salad. I'm just heading out to the market – do you want me to get anything special while I'm there?"

"No, that sounds fine. My purse is on the counter if you need some money—"

"Yep, figured that out already. I won't be gone long. But I'm warning you now – I want to be able to use the bathroom when I get back. Deal?"

"Deal."

"Okay, then. Ciao for now!"

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Dawn hadn't been out of the apartment for more than five minutes when there was a peculiar rat-a-tat knock at the door. Buffy frowned – was that supposed to be some kind of signal? She hadn't been expecting anyone, much less someone who was going to tap out Morse code in the hallway. 

Buffy opened the door to find Andrew standing there with an overstuffed overnight bag in hand, hastily plastering an expectant smile on his face. "Buffy!" he greeted enthusiastically, reaching out toward her.

Buffy put out a hand, effectively warding off the imminent hug and pushed the door all the way open at the same time. "Yes, Andrew, you can stay for a few days."

"Oh. Oh! Buffy, you're a lifesaver," Andrew effused. "A real peach – an Italian peach! Would that be a pomegranate? I'm not sure; I'll find out. Anyway, I really really appreciate this. I know I said I wouldn't be back so soon, and I didn't mean to, but, as it happens, there was this situation that came up, and… well, you know how it is—"

"Yes, absolutely I do."

With Andrew, there was often a "situation" or a "crisis" or an "unavoidable incident". Idly, she had wondered if it were bill collectors, or simply problems with his social life, but it didn't matter. If he didn't stay overlong, she did not mind the imposition.

"So…" Dawn wouldn't be back for a while yet; that left Buffy with the task of coming up with a shared topic of conversation. A sudden inspiration struck. "How's the Watcher's Council these days, Andrew?"

"Busy," he huffed dramatically, plopping down on the couch in an exaggerated swoon. "So very, very busy. I have to admit, I never realized that being a 'Watcher' would mean so much activity. Somehow, I thought there would be more… you know, sitting and 'watching'. Not that I'm complaining. Not at all. I've learned a lot. And I'm living my dream – that is to say, the non-evil version of my dream," he clarified hastily, as if there were some doubt. "But the last few months, it's just been nonstop, back and forth, here and there; and I'm sure I don't have to tell you how that whole business with WRH was keeping us busy…"

He blathered on, but Buffy was still stuck on the W-R-H. What the heck was WRH? Her mind blanked. _Western Retail Holdings? Wiccan Research Handbook? We're Really Hungry? _"Back up for a minute," she interrupted, "to the part where you remind me what 'WRH' is?"

"Wolfram and Hart," he said, raising his voice and drawing the words out slowly as if she were simply hard of hearing. "You know, the evil lawyer firm in LA."

Buffy winced. "Oh yes." The evil lawyer firm that Angel headed up.

She hadn't wanted to believe it, at first, when Giles came with the news that Angel had switched sides. It had been only a few days after Sunnydale… surely, if something had been wrong with Angel, she would have sensed it when he came with the amulet. She would have **known**… wouldn't she? But Giles must have known she wouldn't take him at his word, and he'd come armed with more than enough evidence to back up his claims. For a while, she'd still persisted in thinking that it could be some kind of misunderstanding, or mistake, or even that Angel might have – once again – lost his grip on his wobbly soul.

Not the case. Eventually, even she had to admit it.

And that had set her to wondering about other things. The amulet that Angel had so conveniently provided at the eleventh hour. The amulet that had seized and burned, and set off the cataclysmic reaction that sealed the hellmouth and destroyed… everything…

But he couldn't have known… He wouldn't have… would he…?

The terrible thing was, she didn't know. Not for sure. And it had all been too much for her, too soon, and she couldn't bear to think about it. Some part of her had snapped: no more slayage, no more vampires, no more demons. _'Just deal with it, Giles, because I'm done with it. I don't know anything anymore. I don't want to know. Do what you want, but I'm done. I'm done.'_

And it had all been so much easier once she'd pushed it out of her mind as a painful non-issue. Giles had agreed to handle it; she'd turned her attention to other matters; and neither one of them had brought it up again.

"How could I forget that?" she murmured distantly in response to Andrew's reply. "What about them?"

"I acronymed them…" Andrew explained proudly.

"And I'll bet they're still reeling from that," Buffy said under her breath.

Andrew continued, either not having heard her, or exercising his selective hearing once again: "…and the company has been officially indexed in the New Watcher's Guide as WRH. I might add that Giles admired it as a very efficient abbreviation. And, from a security standpoint, it also adds a level of complexity to our communications – you know, in case of any undercover double-oh-seven's trying to decode us – and when you think about the…"

Buffy considered pointing out that this was a very long-winded speech on brevity, but it was easier just to let him go on – eventually he'd wind down on his own. Adding an absent-minded "uh-hmm," and "oh really" at the appropriate intervals, Buffy wandered around the kitchen, wondering if she had enough fruit on hand to make a proper smoothie.

"…and after all that – I mean, it seems anti-climactic to me, in a way. Coming back like that, like literally from ashes, you know, and then dying again – I don't know, it doesn't really make sense…"

It sure didn't. "Uh-hmm," Buffy responded inattentively, selecting an assortment of fruit to put into the blender. A bit of lunch, and then out for a jog – sounded like a plan. She wasn't going to spend her day off with Andrew.

"But you know," Andrew continued speculatively, "I think there's more to it. I mean, we're talking about some pretty heavy-duty magical forces. Not that I'm saying it's a conspiracy or anything, but maybe it was like he sort of had to… become one with the Force, as it were. Like Obi-Wan."

Oh no – not Star Wars again. With a pained smile, Buffy gave Andrew another non-committal "uh-hmm," just because he was looking at her in anticipation, as if eager to see her response. Trying hard to look busy, she turned away to start stuffing the blender with fruit and fervently hoped that Dawn would return soon so that Andrew would have another target for his prattling.

"You see, I knew you'd understand!" Andrew exclaimed, obviously mistaking her disinterest for agreement. "You've already worked all the angles, haven't you, figured it all out, and that's why you've got that – that zen-Slayer-calm thing going on, isn't it?" He let out a happy sigh. "I knew it. Wow. Buffy, you're just… inspirational."

"Umm… thanks," she decided, hoping that would bring an end to the conversation.

No such luck.

"They should make posters with your face on it. 'I Want YOU to Fight Evil'," he uttered, his hands framing the words around an imaginary advertisement. "Or maybe something a little more subtle… like 'What Would Buffy Do?'."

Bop Andrew on the head? The thought brought a smile to her face, which she quickly squelched. No. Buffy would never, ever do that. Bad Buffy.

"Oh yeah. That'd be great," he muttered to himself, his momentum starting to fizzle without any other input. However, after an all-too-brief lull in conversation, Andrew began to fidget expectantly. "The thing is," he ventured, "well… I was kind of hoping that you could, you know, share a few of the details with me. Of what happened. It would be…" His voice dropped drastically as he mouthed, " 'our little secret' ," before resuming with his normal speaking voice. "Whatever you feel comfortable sharing, of course. Completely clandestine. Watcher-Slayer confidentiality. I'd never, ever let on that I knew."

Buffy wasn't certain it was safe to let on that she didn't know what he was talking about.

"After all," he continued, his voice taking on a faintly wheedling tone, "he was my friend and compatriot, too. We had a connection, you know; a special kinship; a mano-et-vampiro kind of thing. And I think… we were starting to develop this real rapport with each other – sometimes," he sighed wistfully, "I almost wonder where it might have led—"

"Andrew," she said, interrupting as it became plain that his freeform flow of speech was just not going to taper off without some kind of intervention on her part, "you're not making sense."

Andrew fell briefly silent. He was looking at her with that puzzled puppy dog look he had. "Um, well, what's not to understand?"

"Be blunt with me, Andrew," she said. "Who are you talking about?"

"Well, Spike, of course."

The word was like a blow to her stomach. She drew in her breath, held it for a moment. Spike. Sunnydale. Hellmouth. The life she'd left behind, and her last sight of him, glowing with a doomed blaze of life and sunlight. His touch had scalded her, scarred her. Glancing down at her fingertips, she unclenched her fist, and once again turned her attention back to the mixer. It whirred noisily for a few moments, and she poured the smoothie into a glass, then turned back towards Andrew.

"What about Spike?" Her voice was close to normal – no one would notice the tiny cracks. No one ever did.

"But… haven't you been listening to a word I've said?"

"Yes, actually, I have," she replied patiently, pausing to take a quick gulp of her smoothie. Pleasantly fruity. And chock full of energy to boot. And people said she couldn't cook. Hmph. "But I'm obviously missing something in the translation, because it's not making a lot of sense to me, and I don't think I once heard you say the word 'Spike'. Until now."

He looked mildly perturbed. "Well, of course I didn't blurt it out, Buffy. As a junior watcher, Giles has impressed upon me the utmost importance of discretion, and in delicate matters such as these… Well, I'm sure I don't have to tell you that a single misspoken word can mean the difference between life and death. But there was subtext there – you got that there was subtext, didn't you?"

"Oh yes. Subtext galore. Yep, I knew that." Sometimes, there was no point in arguing with Andrew. It could be a long and circuitous process, and she wasn't in the mood for it today. She tossed down the last of her smoothie, and glanced at the expensive watch on her wrist. "But you know, I'm running a bit late, here – I have a meeting with a…" she cast about in her mind for a suitably urgent sounding appointment, but could only come up with "…um, hairdresser… so if you could just give me the short version—"

"Oh, all right, then." A heavy, put-upon sigh, but he complied happily enough. "It's just that we've been trying to work out all the details of what happened after that…" Unable to completely resist theatrics, he paused, his eyes flickering to the left and the right as if he expected that the walls literally had ears, and lowering his voice, concluded, "after that thing that went down in LA."

Though it was hardly what she'd term 'blunt', Buffy knew what he was referring to. It had made the international news: images of destruction, looting and chaos, and people babbling about apocalyptic visions of monsters and dragons, of a new war being waged between the angels and the devils.

The official explanation had been that it was some kind of explosion. Wolfram and Hart's LA offices were all but destroyed – no great loss there – and the ensuing gas leak had caused mass hallucinations and destruction. Later reports had blamed it on a lethal combination of office renovations and shoddy contractors. And everyone was comforted to think so, and they went about the business of cleaning up the damage, sweeping it back underneath the metaphorical carpet. She'd seen that kind of denial hundreds of times while living on the hellmouth – it no longer surprised her any more.

"Yeah, I saw the reports, and Giles filled me in on the rest," she replied brusquely. "What's any of that got to do with Spike?"

The look he gave her was exceptionally peculiar. "Buffy… I thought… I mean, don't you know?"

"Andrew," she replied, the veneer of patience wearing quite thin, "if I knew, would I be asking? What – are – you – talking – about?"

"Spike was there."

Succinct, and yet still it made no sense. "Where?"

"In LA. With Angel. When it all went down, he was there… with Angel."

An iron-cold chill wrenched through her, straightening her spine, and hardening her voice. "Spike is dead."

"We don't know that for sure," Andrew countered hurriedly, a worried look in his eye. "That's what I was trying to explain. Giles now thinks there may have been some sort of portal – after all, a battle like that, they couldn't all have disappeared overnight. Okay, yes, it could have been the mystical equivalent of a hydrogen bomb like we first thought – and everyone could have just been vaporized – but then we started thinking… probably the only ones with enough juice to pull that off would be the senior partners at WRH – Wolfram and Hart," he translated helpfully. "And that would be serious overkill. I mean, they'd end up wiping out their own forces as well, so it does make more sense that they'd just take the battle elsewhere. And Giles said that Willow felt some mystical energy still hanging over the city—"

LA. He was still talking about LA.

"Spike died in **Sunnydale**," she interrupted loudly, trying to snap Andrew back to reality, and her voice was straining. "I saw him…" Didn't see him die. Didn't stay to watch, but turned and ran away as the cavern began to fall to pieces. "…I saw him trapped there. He was burning. And he died."

"Maybe." His voice was very tiny, and his face was pale. She hadn't seen him so frightened since that last day in Sunnydale, and he was staring at her now as if he'd only just realized something. "I mean, yes, I thought so too… at first. But – but, Buffy… I thought you knew…"

"Knew what?"

"He's alive. Undead-alive, I mean. Or, at least, he was. With Angel, in LA."

"That's impossible."

"I saw him, Buffy. I was there. When you and Giles sent me to collect Dana. Spike was there."

A sick feeling began to churn in the pit of her stomach. The mad girl's wild, violent ravings – of how she had captured a vampire, a slayer of Slayers, and how she had cut and chopped, but the Dark Angel intervened, the Dark Angel cast her away…

"That can't be."

"I… I'm really sorry. I thought you knew."

"What? That Spike was alive?! Do I look like I knew?" she replied, her voice far too close to a shriek for her own liking. She turned her back on him, turned away, because she couldn't bear to have him staring at her so, and her heart was racing, her mind was racing, both trying to find the same answer… "It must have been a trick," she said, desperate. "You went to LA, and Angel…" Her voice choked on the words, but she spit them out, because she knew they were true. "Angel can't be trusted any more. He knew what you wanted to see, and it was… some kind of trick. You know that. That law firm he works for now, Giles said they had company shamans – they could make illusions. Glamours. That kind of thing. It wasn't Spike. Couldn't have been."

"I…" Andrew closed his mouth. Swallowed hard. "I can tell the difference. And besides… he was here a few weeks ago."

And because that statement was so patently ridiculous, the wildfire panic within her diminished a little, started to calm. Obviously, Andrew was hallucinating, or confused. He'd never had the strongest personality in the first place – maybe the stress was getting to him. "Who? Spike, or Angel?"

"Both."

Her stomach did another flip-flop as she unexpectedly remembered that sly comment from the bartender at one of the nightclubs: _"Did your two handsome friends find you? So many men to fight over one small girl – you're quite the heartbreaker, my dear…"_ And then that fluttering of half-mocking laughter as she'd turned away to deal with another customer. Before she could ask for an explanation, the Immortal had appeared at her elbow, drawing her back to the whirl of dancing and laughter, and she had forgotten all about the cryptic remark.

"Spike was …here?" Her voice sounded thin and tinny to her own ears. "In Rome?"

"Yes," Andrew replied, from a thousand miles away. "That's what I've been trying to tell you. I think it might have been some kind of business trip, actually. They had a suitcase, anyway. But Spike and Angel were running back and forth all over town. Very odd behaviour… even for them. They even came here; they thought the Immortal had put a spell on you. I set them straight, and then they—"

"They knew about the Immortal? That I've been…?" Her breath caught in her throat, and she sat down heavily. Something twisted within her.

"Buffy, are you all right?"

"Get out, Andrew."

"What?"

"Get out."

A brief hesitation, and then distantly, she could see Andrew nodding. "Um… okay, yes. I'll just step outside for a while. You need some time. I understand. We'll talk later, okay? When you're ready. Okay." And the door clicked quietly behind him, and his footsteps sounded down the hallway and faded into silence.

Her heart pounded. She felt faint… constricted. For some time, Buffy sat entirely unmoving, so many contradictory feelings blurring in such a torrent that she couldn't make sense of any of them.

And then her eyes settled on the phone.

No, not Giles. Couldn't call Giles. If any of what Andrew said was true, then Giles had known and hadn't told her. And, at the moment, she couldn't deal with the thought of having that conversation with Giles – that painfully familiar conversation – not when she knew just how that hurt and disappointment would break down into something ugly.

Willow, she realized, latching onto that thought. Willow was the one other person she knew who could tell her anything about magic, or portals, or whether or not any of what Andrew was saying was true.

Buffy picked up the phone.


	2. Chapter 2: The Way It Is

**Disclaimer:** The characters of "Buffy the Vampire Slayer" and "Angel" belong to Joss Whedon and Mutant Enemy. The original characters are my fault. No copyright infringement intended, and as this is posted for free, and read for free, nobody is losing any money. Suing me won't make you any money either (haha! see my puny bank account!), so let's just not.

Concrit appreciated! Hope you enjoy:-)

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**Chapter 2 : The Way It Is**

Willow. If anyone knew, she would know…

Buffy was more than a bit shocked at just how deeply Andrew's words had unsettled her – a part of her was still insisting that this wild tale of his was crazy, that it didn't make any sense… and yet, in an awful way, it did…

Though she couldn't yet put a name to what she was feeling, it was lodged in her now like a premonition, or a curse, and it hurt to breathe, it hurt to think— Whatever it was, whatever it meant, she had to know the truth.

And Willow… surely, Willow would be able tell her.

Reaching out, Buffy picked up the phone – it was cold in her hand. Or maybe it was her hands that were cold. They were trembling. "Stop it," she hissed to herself. "Get a grip."

Taking a few calming breaths, she pressed the autodial button, then waited anxiously as the phone rang. What was it – a five-hour time difference to Rio de Janeiro? She could never quite keep straight whether it was three-or-four-or-five hours forward, or three-or-four-or-five hours back, and would almost always end up calling at strange times of the day. Email was much easier on many levels, so she'd been using that more and more, but for this, she absolutely needed to talk to Willow in person.

Glancing at the clock, she thought that it might be criminally early in the morning in Rio right now, but at least that meant Willow should be there.

It seemed impossible that a phone could ring so long without being answered. Buffy's mind began to wheel away into panicked scenarios: What if an answering machine picked up? – she couldn't possibly leave a message. Couldn't wait, and couldn't think of the words to say. But the phone kept on ringing, and a machine would have picked up by now.

What if Willow weren't there? What if she'd just decided to ignore the phone? God, what if Kennedy answered? Or someone else?

What if no one answered? What would she do, then?

Finally, the ringing stopped, and a familiar voice answered, sounding faintly annoyed. "Hello?"

"Willow," she greeted.

"Buffy, is that you?" On the other end of the phone line, Willow's voice instantly lifted into pleasant surprise. If the phone call was poorly timed, she didn't say so. "Hey, I've been meaning to call you for a while now – it's been so long. How are you?"

Though Buffy had a hard time concentrating on what was being said, she managed to exchange all the polite responses required. "I'm fine" – "Dawn's fine" – "nice to hear from you too" – "how is everyone" – "oh, that's nice." And then, finally able to settle her rattled nerves by sheer force of will, she abruptly blurted out the one question she really wanted answered: "Willow, I've been meaning to ask you… do you know anything about what happened to Spike? After Sunnydale, I mean?"

"W-what…? I… I mean… why would you ask that?"

That was more than answer enough. Buffy closed her eyes briefly with a flicker of – what? Pain? Relief? – but her tone was all business as she replied, "I think there's a portal that I want opened."

Willow's voice was strained. "What happened?" Only a momentary pause, broken by a subtly reproachful, "Is Andrew there—?"

"Can you do it?" Buffy pressed.

A long pause.

"I know what happened, Will." Not exactly the truth, but close enough.

"Then you already know the answer: No. No way, Buffy." The voice was still Willow's, but the unyielding resolve in her manner was a sharp departure from her usual façade of slightly goofy, happy-go-lucky friend. "I can't do that. Won't do it. We discussed—" And then abruptly abandoned that sentence, shifting with scarcely a pause to segue into a more conciliatory phrase, "I understand why you're asking. I do get it. But, Buffy… there are some things that just aren't meant to be tampered with."

This, coming from the girl who had gorged herself on dark magic and tried to destroy the world. Buffy was certain if she bit her lip any harder it would start to bleed.

Willow must have been able to feel the silent tension sizzling through the phone line, for her voice softened even further, an unhappy lilt to her words. "Who else have you…? I think maybe you should talk to Giles."

"I'm talking to you. I called you for a reason, Willow."

"I know you did, but…" Another extended hesitation. "I'm sorry, Buffy. Really, I am. But I can't do this for you."

Though her refusal wasn't entirely unexpected, it still didn't lessen the sting of disappointment Buffy felt. "Why not?" Clipped little bits of words grinding from her too-tight throat.

"First of all, because it'd be incredibly dangerous. Just stop and think about it for a minute," Willow implored. "Evil Incorporated starts a war in the middle of LA. The kind of magic that they unleashed when they did that – I'm telling you, it was unbelievably strong, like they'd dropped a bomb – I could feel it from here. That kind of power, it pulls things to pieces, and it was still picking up momentum when that portal opened up and swallowed it all. If it hadn't… well, I'd say that LA got off lucky with just losing a few city blocks. We all got off lucky."

"What, it would have been Apocalypse Again? I'd've thought by now that derailing that event was practically our weekly specialty," she said tartly. "And anyway, that's really not the point—"

"No, it isn't," Willow agreed, effectively cutting her off. "The point is, nothing good is going to come out of that portal. If it were opened again, some very big-time evil could come crawling back out, start tearing everything apart."

"And then they'd meet the pointy end of my stake. Problem solved."

"I'm serious here, Buffy," Willow interjected. "You're not listening to me. You never— All right. Let me put it this way: do you really want to risk everyone's lives, breaking down a doorway to goddess-knows-what-kind-of-hell, just for… just so you can…?" She didn't finish the sentence. "You know what – it doesn't even matter, anyway," she said. "This wasn't one of those blip-blip rapid-transit-type portals that Anya used when she was vengeancing. This was something… massive. And ancient. The spell that opened it… I can't even explain it. It's like it's all sharp edges and riddles and deadlocks… It's difficult. I don't think I could open it by myself even if I tried."

"But you **won't** try," she prompted.

"I already said no," Willow repeated, a sharpness in her voice, "and I already said I couldn't, and I even said why. What part of that don't you get? Why don't you just trust me?"

"Why don't I— oh, come on. I can't believe you just said that. Just 'trust' you…?" A sputter of disbelieving laughter slipped out. It sounded harsh and brittle. "The way that you trusted me…? Or are we talking about something else? Because I'd've thought that maybe you'd have trusted me with the **truth**, Willow – or, at the very least, that you would have said something – **anything**! – before now, before—" _before it was too late._ Buffy pressed a hand against her mouth, stifling the words.

It wasn't too late. It wasn't. She needed to believe that.

"Buffy." When Willow finally broke the uncomfortable hush that had fallen between them, her voice was subdued. "I'm sorry for that. I am. We just… the whole thing was over and done with, and… well, it was for the best to just leave it at that. Why make you dig up the past when it was too late?"

"It's not too late," she insisted.

"It is," Willow sighed. "You know it is. Wolfram and Hart engaging in open war? Have you even read the reports? – it sounded like something on the scale of Glory, when she was ripping down the walls between worlds. If that wasn't the beginning of a bona fide apocalypse, then it was the closest I ever want to get. LA, it's like an open wound – the seers and witches, anyone tied into the mystical realm, they had to leave the city – it was too much for them – and I don't think any of them have gone back yet. There are these… psychic aftershocks that I can still feel, even now. I'm telling you, it was the real deal, Buffy. It was very bad."

"So bad that I wasn't notified until afterwards." The bitterness was just rolling off her tongue. "So very, very bad that I didn't need to go there; it was all over; the other slayers had it under control—"

"I already told you, that wasn't my decision."

"Oh, for God's sake! Don't give me that – of course I know it was Giles! I even understand that, a little bit, coming from him; his issues with Spike weren't exactly a big secret. But, you… Willow, I thought we were friends."

"I **am **your friend, Buffy. And friends look out for each other. Protect each other."

"Then obviously you and I have very different ideas about what that means."

A harder edge entered Willow's voice. "Yeah, obviously we do. We've both changed since Sunnydale – you're not the one and only Slayer, and I'm not your little sidekick any more. I don't know which of those two bugs you more, but don't think I haven't noticed the way you only call me when you want something. Like right now. So stop trying to guilt-trip me here, Buffy, because you're not fooling anyone."

In spite of her own anger, Buffy was taken aback by the hostility in Willow's response – it crackled in her ear with an almost palpable resentment.

"Don't pretend to forget," Willow continued with scarcely a pause, "you were the one, Buffy, who decided you wanted to take a break from all this. You were the one who ran away to Rome. You didn't want to go to London; you didn't want to work with Giles. You said that Faith could handle LA without you. You want to train slayers when you want to do it, and when you don't – well, then someone else can pick up the slack. You made it pretty clear that you want to be included on your terms only. And these days, that seems to be few and far in between your play dates with the Immortal. So you're all hostile now because we didn't pick up the phone and tell you everything – yeah, okay, maybe I get that. But excuse me for taking your Merry Widow act at face value."

Buffy caught her breath so sharply it left her speechless. Even worse was the realization that she couldn't find the words to fight back… there was just a bit too much truth in what Willow had said.

She had shut them out, and she had walked away. And she'd hoarded her grief and made it a secret thing, boxed it away and tried to bury it beneath the carefree, meaningless whirl of parties and pleasantries she'd found here in Rome. There was no one else to blame for that; she'd done it all herself.

Nevertheless, after a moment, Willow backed down, shifting back to an apologetic tone. "Okay, maybe that was unfair – I shouldn't have said it. And I didn't mean to be so harsh. It's just… Buffy, this wasn't an easy thing for any of us, you know? And whatever happened in LA… it was all over before we even had a chance to step in." She gave a frustrated sigh. "Look, it's hyper-busy around here right now, what with the – well, everything – but if you want, I might be able to get away tomorrow, or the day after… Maybe this would be better if we talked it out in person—"

"No," she said, too curtly. "It really wouldn't be. Is there anything else you want to tell me?" Buffy pressed obstinately.

"What's left to tell?" Willow replied evenly, but with equal obstinacy. "Some doors – once they're shut, they're just not meant to be opened again. That's the way it is." Those words spoken with an unyielding finality.

"Well, if that's the way it is," Buffy said slowly, "then that's the way it is. Thanks for looking out for me, Willow."

"Buffy, wait – don't hang up yet – Listen, I know how you feel—"

"How can you?" she snapped back. "**I **don't know what I'm feeling; so how can you possibly know?"

"That… that's not what I meant. I mean, I just… I don't want to leave it like this. Can't we talk about it?"

"What's left to talk about? I know you think you had your reasons, but right now… I just can't get past the fact that you knew, and you didn't tell me."

"I did what I thought was right."

"I know."

And then, a resonant silence that went on and on and on. Both of them standing resolute in their own point of view, waiting for something to change – but, for once, neither one of them found the words to bridge the gap between them.

"Look," Buffy said, after the silence had become nearly suffocating, "I – I need time to think, okay? It's a lot to take in all at once. And I don't want to do this right now, Willow. I don't want to be arguing. Not over the phone, and not right now. So let's just not, okay? Let's… not." Buffy glanced down at her watch, her mind already starting to think about things like time and distance; where she was now, and where she needed to be. "I have to go."

"You'll call me later?"

"Yes." A sad sigh escaping her throat, because she already knew she wouldn't. "Yes, I… I'm going out for a walk. To think. And Dawn… I was going to do something with Dawn," she said vaguely, fully aware that her lame excuses sounded like lame excuses. "I'll call you in a few days."

"Okay." Willow didn't sound very happy with the idea, but apparently decided to accept it. "Buffy… I really, truly am sorry."

"I know, Willow. I know." And then she really had nothing else to say. "Bye."

More drained by the conversation than she'd expected she would be, Buffy dropped the phone back down upon the table.

Okay, that hadn't gone well at all. She'd got her answers, and then some besides, but still… She couldn't stop second-guessing herself. Could she have said something else, done anything differently, that would have made it all better? Buffy stared listlessly at the phone, as if something would come to her, but nothing did. Briefly, she wondered if Willow felt the same way, if she were doing the same thing right now in Brazil.

No, probably not. In all likelihood, Willow was conferring with Kennedy right now, the two of them deciding what to do next. Eventually, she'd make calls to Giles, or maybe Xander… maybe she'd even try to track down Andrew.

That final thought was enough to spur her back into action. The absolute last thing she needed right now was to have Andrew hovering about, offering his overly talkative attempts at encouragement or condolence.

And then realized that Dawn would be returning soon, if Andrew hadn't already intercepted her. Another complication.

Her mind made up, Buffy pulled an empty tote bag out of her wardrobe, stuffing a quick change of clothing inside it. Scribbling a hasty note to Dawn, Buffy tried to ignore the guilty twinge inside her. It would just be for a few days, she reasoned, and there was no sense in worrying Dawn. After all, she'd have Andrew for company – and Marco, too. That last thought made Buffy pause briefly, but then she shrugged it off. If Marco stepped out of line, she'd kill him when she got back. In the meantime, Dawn probably wouldn't even notice that her sister was gone.

Hurriedly shrugging on a jacket, Buffy grabbed her purse and walked out of the apartment.

Dawn, however, was sitting on the front step of the apartment building, groceries still in hand, and deeply engaged in a hushed conversation with Andrew. Unfortunately, she wasn't so deeply engrossed that she didn't notice Buffy as she rushed by.

"Buffy—!"

"I'm going out," she threw over her shoulder, trying not to sound guilty as she said it. "I'll be back later."

But Dawn wasn't so easily deterred, and came hurrying behind her. "But – Buffy! – wait! Where are you going?"

"She did say she has a hair appointment," Andrew offered, trotting after the two of them.

"Andrew told me what happened," Dawn persisted, having to almost run alongside her to match Buffy's determined pace. "What are you going to do? Come on, Buffy – talk to me."

"Later. When I get back," Buffy replied, deliberately vague as she paused to flag down a taxi.

"But… but… Buffy…" Dawn sputtered, atypically at a loss for words. "Where are you going in such a hurry?"

"Aeroporto," Buffy instructed the cab driver as she got into the back seat of the car. "Fiumicino."

"What—?!" Dawn yelped with surprise. Recovering quickly, she stepped forward and grabbed the car door before Buffy could close it. "Wait! Can you wait two seconds so we can discuss this?"

"No, I can't. I'm not changing my mind, so there's nothing to discuss. And, anyway, I've only just got time to catch my flight, so would you please let go of the—"

The brief flicker of determination in her sister's face was the only warning Buffy had – as her eyes narrowed and her lips tightened to a hard line, Dawn hastily lunged forward, jostling overtop Buffy as she clambered into the vehicle. "Then I'm coming with you."

"Oh! Me too!" Not to be outdone, or left behind, Andrew leaped into the front seat next to the cab driver, who had already started the meter and therefore seemed only mildly interested in the drama.

"Hey! This is **my** cab! Get out, the both of you! Right now!" Buffy ordered. Andrew looked back toward Dawn for guidance; Dawn sat hunched down in her seat with a resolute expression, her fingers digging into the seat cushions as if she could physically anchor herself there. "I mean it!" Buffy insisted, getting out of the car and waving her arms, for all the good that did her. Neither one of them moved.

"All right," Buffy sighed, changing tactics and trying to look defeated. "You win. But if you're coming along, you're going to have to hurry. Go on – I'll wait a few minutes while you go get your stuff—"

"That's great," Andrew enthused, unbuckling his seat belt. "Because I left my iPod in your…" His voice trailed off as he looked at Dawn.

"Hah!" Dawn shouted in reply. "How stupid do you think I am?"

In the front seat, Andrew quickly subsided, quietly clicking his seat belt back into place.

"I don't know what you mean," Buffy tried to counter in faux innocence, but her voice gave her away.

"I get out of this cab, and you'll drive off," Dawn snorted. "Well, no thank you, Buffy. I travel light. Besides—" She reached down and pulled an apple out of the grocery bag that had spilled half its contents on the floor of the car. "—I have everything I need here."

"Don't be ridiculous. You can't come along – you don't even have your passport," Buffy argued, realizing her mistake a moment too late.

"Andrew, go get my passport. It's in the hallway closet," Dawn instructed Andrew in that rapid-fire, high speed exchange that the two of them seemed to excel at, "on the top shelf, in a big manila envelope marked 'Important Papers'. Might as well bring the whole envelope. Run in and get it – and hurry!"

Andrew was off and running before Buffy had a chance to collar him.

"Look," Buffy growled at Dawn, with no small measure of exasperation, "I really don't have time to stand here and argue with you—"

"Then let's not argue," Dawn replied pertly. "I've made up my mind, anyway, and there's nothing you can do about it."

"Oh?"

Dawn didn't appear to be intimidated by her dangerous tone of voice. "Even if it's true that you could just slayer-strong-arm me out of this cab," she conceded, "I still know where you're going. Do you think I can't get to Fiumicino on my own? In fact, it would probably be a lot faster," she pointed out, "if we just took the cab to Roma Termini and then caught the express train to the airport. Traffic is crazy this time of day."

Buffy gritted her teeth. Of course Dawn **would** know the train routes better than her. Was it her fault the Immortal was always sending a car for her? How was she supposed to know the quickest way anywhere?

"I don't care how fast you can get to the airport," Buffy reminded her sternly, "you're still not coming with me."

Winded and gasping, Andrew reappeared on the scene, struggling back into the cab with his heavy travel bag back on his shoulder, and the 'Important Papers' clutched in his hand.

"Thank you, Andrew," Dawn said sweetly, retrieving the envelope from him and pulling out her passport to hold it close. "Ready, Buffy? We should probably get going. And if you want to talk, we can talk on the way. The meter's running, you know."

Buffy scowled ferociously, but climbed back into the cab. "Fine," she snapped, slamming the car door with way more force than was necessary. Great. Now she was going to have to tip the driver extra. "You can come with me to the airport," she conceded, as if she still had some measure of control over the situation, "but you're **not** going to LA."

* * *

"I need a ticket for the next flight to Los Angeles. As soon as possible."

"Three tickets," Dawn prompted behind her shoulder. As if there were some doubt as to what Dawn had just said, Andrew added his own, "Tre," in a heavily exaggerated accent, holding up three fingers and waving them at the woman behind the counter.

Buffy rolled her eyes, and said, "One."

The travel attendant clicked away at her computer. "We do have a flight leaving within the next hour," she glanced at the clock, "you'll only just be able to make it through security. However, the only seats left available on that flight are in First Class—"

"That's fine. I don't care what it costs."

"—so will that be one ticket or three?"

"One," Buffy repeated firmly, pulling out a credit card, while again, Dawn and Andrew insisted, "Three."

"I'm not paying for your tickets," Buffy replied airily, "so if the two of you can't pay your own way, I guess you'll just have to stay here."

Dawn's jaw dropped. "That's so not fair! And since when did using the Immortal's credit card start to count as 'paying your own way'?"

"Since he gave it to me," Buffy countered resolutely, not about to be sidetracked by the weakness of her argument.

For a brief moment, Dawn was stymied, and the frown on her face seemed well on the way to seething. Unfortunately, it was a remarkably brief moment.

All too quickly, Dawn mimicked a thoughtful expression, chewing on her lip as if mulling things over. "Um, well, okay, Buffy… I guess if you won't pay for my ticket, I could probably just call Giles… or Xander or Willow. Maybe one of them can forward me the funds. Once I explain everything, I'm sure they'll be totally okay with that. If that's okay with you, that is."

"Three tickets," Buffy sighed, with the battle-weary air of a general retreating the field in disgrace, "to Los Angeles."


	3. Can't Go Home Again

**Disclaimer:** The characters of "Buffy the Vampire Slayer" and "Angel" belong to Joss Whedon and Mutant Enemy. The original characters are my fault. No copyright infringement intended, and as this is posted for free, and read for free, nobody is losing any money. Suing me won't make you any money either (haha! see my puny bank account!), so let's just not.

Concrit appreciated.

Author's Note: It was Thomas Wolfe. :-)

* * *

**Chapter 3 : Can't Go Home Again**

Bright sunshine, incessant traffic, and palm trees. At least some things about LA hadn't changed, even if she had.

Buffy sat in the back seat of the convertible, only distantly aware of Dawn and Andrew's animated chatter in front of her. Instead, she watched the streets, buildings, and vehicles speeding by around her, and was searching for something that felt familiar.

How many years had it been since she'd left here – been thrown out of school for setting a fire in the high school gym—? Not so long as it seemed. And not long enough. LA didn't feel like home anymore; LA was Angel's town now. Or, it had been, anyway.

Just like Sunnydale had once been hers.

But now Sunnydale was gone, and even though it hadn't been her lifelong home, its absence left her feeling oddly uprooted. It was the place where she'd come to terms with her Slayer heritage. The place where she'd lived, fought and died – more than once. Where she had met Angel, and finally stopped being a child. Where she had met Spike, and somehow tried to escape being an adult. Where her mother had died, and been buried. Where she had lost more things than she cared to count. Sunnydale was the pang in her chest that she could never quite put a name to.

If it still existed, would she ever have left? Would she have gone back by now?

Maybe it didn't make a difference. "You can't go home again," she murmured aloud, remembering the quote from some long-ago lit class. Thomas Wolfe, if she recalled correctly. Or maybe it was Thomas Hardy. Willow would have known – although it was anyone's guess as to whether she would have deigned to tell her the answer, Buffy thought with more than a little bitterness. But maybe it was true, anyway, whichever Thomas had said it.

"What was that, Buffy?" Andrew asked, craning his head and turning halfway round in the passenger seat to look back at her. "It's windy and Dawn drives fast – can't hear so good. Plus, my ears—" he batted experimentally at the side of his head "—still haven't popped. The airplane," he started to explain, his talkativeness obviously not hampered by his diminished hearing.

"Nothing," Buffy said loudly enough for him to hear. "I was just talking to myself. Thinking."

Dawn took her eyes off the road only long enough to glance back at her through the rearview mirror. "You're not still mad that we came along?"

A faint smile quirked at the corner of her mouth. "No," Buffy admitted, "this is good. It feels right." A bit of California sun on her face, and suddenly all was right with the world.

Besides, it wasn't like she'd had much of a choice. Eventually Buffy had to reconcile herself to the fact that, one way or another, Dawn was going to follow her, and her little sister wasn't above blackmail to get her way. Anyway, Dawn had immediately made herself useful by leaving a message on Giles' answering machine – _"don't know exactly what happened, but Buffy and Willow had some argument. Buffy's way upset, but won't tell me anything yet. So we're skipping out of town for a few days – I hear the shopping in Venice is good this time of year. If there's anything that lifts Buffy's spirits, it's a new outfit. Gotta go now – the train leaves in half an hour – so let the others know, 'kay? I'll call you in a day or two."_ All spoken in the most natural, guileless voice ever. Buffy couldn't help wondering just how much practice it took to get that good at lying, but under the circumstances, she wasn't in any position to be lecturing Dawn.

As for Andrew – well, she kept reminding herself that her options had been either to bring him along and keep an eye on him, or leave him behind and risk him telling Giles and Willow everything he knew at the slightest encouragement. At the moment, it seemed safer to have him underfoot.

"Sooo," Dawn said, drawing the word out as if she weren't sure she wanted to jump into the conversation, "Spike came back months and months ago and everybody knew but us? Whose idea was that?"

"I believe," Andrew began to dissemble, "that it was an executive committee decision—"

"Let me guess," Buffy interrupted. "Giles, Willow, and Kennedy, of course, she's always in the mix…" She paused. "Maybe Xander." And then again, maybe not. Xander had changed too, since Sunnydale, had seemed to draw away from everyone the same way she had. Xander had also lost someone in Sunnydale. She wondered if that was the reason why he always chose the most remote assignments, the ones that took him the farthest away.

She liked to think that maybe Xander hadn't known, that maybe one of her friends hadn't kept such secrets from her. "Did I miss anyone?" Buffy prompted, but Andrew ducked his head and didn't answer.

"Angel," Dawn replied pointedly. "Spike."

"Yeah," she murmured quietly. She didn't know what to make of that, and all of her frenetic speculation and theories were sinking into a cold little weight at the bottom of her stomach. She wished she knew more about what Angel had been doing in his evil law company – and then again, wondered if she really did want to know. The little she'd seen in the files that Giles had showed her had been damning enough.

"I'm sure," Andrew said very slowly, which was a sure sign he was keeping something to himself, "that they had their reasons…"

"Oh, I'm sure they did," Buffy replied tartly. "Everyone always does, don't they? But I don't have to like it. Or agree with it. It's the same old 'we thought it best,' or 'it's for your own good,' or something like that." She took a deep breath to keep herself from launching into yet another out-and-out rant. The two of them had already heard enough on that topic on the flight over here. "I'd just like to have **known**."

A distinctly uncomfortable silence fell, and after a few moments, Buffy relented. After all, it wasn't Andrew she was angry with… although, the thought of him knowing the truth while she walked around oblivious was particularly galling. Still, he was here now, helping her. That was worth something. It was more than Willow had been willing to do for her.

Speculatively, Buffy fingered the talisman around her neck. With the gold filigree intertwined prettily around the smallish agate stone, it looked more like a piece of hand-made jewellery than a functional magic charm. "How can you be sure these things work, Andrew?"

"You don't see Willow here, do you?"

"Good point. It's just that… they look kind of cheesy," she admitted.

"Buffy," he sighed, with the barely tolerant air of a connoisseur, "although ingeniously disguised to resemble cheap trinkets, these are state-of-the-art anti-scrying devices."

"As long as it doesn't turn my neck green," Dawn opined, "I'm okay with it."

"Yes, but... it's just that Willow's a mega-strong witch. If you bought these for $9.99 each at – I don't know – Hogwart's Wholesale Bin or wherever – then how do we know they're going to work against her?"

"Um, well, hello! I spent a lot more money on them than that!" Andrew blurted. "And on a junior watcher's salary, I might add. You could at least pretend to be grateful: these are **quality **talismans." He frowned. "Talismen? Hmm. So, do either of you know what the plural for—"

"Don't worry, Buffy," Dawn chimed in. "Last I heard, the Coven's been reining in Willow these days."

"Indeed. The dark side is ever-present," Andrew added sagely.

"Dark side? You mean, like 'Kennedy?' " Dawn quipped.

Buffy smirked. "Me-oww!"

"Okay, you're right – I'm sorry," Dawn sighed. "Maybe that **was **an eensy bit harsh—"

"Hey, don't apologize – I'm really not there with the Kennedy-love either. All I'm saying is 'meow.' "

"Well, to bring this amusing little digression back on topic," Andrew replied stuffily, as if he weren't the reigning king of digressions, "Buffy, you'll be happy to learn that I also paid a little extra so that we'd get the special amulet protection upgrade. It's guaranteed, or I get my money back."

Amulet protection upgrade? Buffy wondered how it was possible for someone to be talking about magic and still sound so much like an appliance salesman. "**What's **guaranteed?"

"The upgraded protection," Andrew replied circuitously, then seemed to register the annoyance on Buffy's face. "Um, the way it works is that you get to add a false background to the amulet – whatever you want. So, basically, I got it set up so that anyone trying to get past the talismans will get a slightly piquant aftertaste of Sunnydale."

"Oh." So if anyone were coming after her – _paranoid much, Buffy? _– they'd probably start by heading towards the remains of Sunnydale. Even if that wouldn't hold them long, it might buy her some time. "That's actually good thinking, Andrew."

Andrew puffed up with pride. "All in a Watcher's Day, my little slayer. All in a Watcher's Day…"

"Whatever. And I'm not **your** slayer." She eyed the talisman once more. "What if they **do** get past them?"

"Welll… it would take a while, but if they did… then the stone in the center will kind of… implode. Not a big 'bang,' " he reassured them, "just a little popping and fizzing. There should be no resulting skin irritation whatsoever. But the important thing is that we'll know they're onto us."

"Which will give us maybe a thirty-second head start before witches start magicing their way in right all around us?" Dawn asked.

"Erm… possibly so, yes."

"Actually, Willow said that most of the witches had left LA," Buffy pointed out. "Big black cloud of psychic despair hanging over the city, or something like that. Gives them a headache, I suppose."

Andrew's head tipped back as he aimed a worried look up at the sunny sky.

"Not **literal **clouds, of course," Buffy added.

"Of course not," Andrew agreed hastily, dropping his eyes. "Everything feels fine. There's absolutely no storm-front of despair."

"Well, whatever it was, if it took the witches out of commission, that's a nice big advantage for 'team us,' " Dawn replied with careless ease. Not at all tense, this excursion was all apparently a big holiday to her. "And, on the even brighter side, the amulets can be a handy early warning system. At least we know they haven't found us out yet." She frowned. "Hey, where are—? Oops! Hang on!" she yelped, abruptly signaling, shoulder-checking, and swerving across multiple lanes of traffic in a terrifying tire-squealing maneuver.

"Rented car!" Buffy shrieked, holding tight to her seatbelt as the vehicle careened across the roadway, while from the front seat, Andrew was babbling something incomprehensible about inertial dampers. "Rented car!!"

Dawn successfully steered the car onto the relative safety of a side street. "Oh, yeah, like you're worried about the Immortal's credit rating if we lose the damage deposit. Puh-lease. And if you don't like the drastic lane changes, take it up with our craptacular navigator here," she said, whapping Andrew firmly on the arm. "You were supposed to warn me when we got to the turnoff!"

"I…" Looking contrite, Andrew folded and unfolded the map, anxiously turning it over in his hands and nodding his head as he peered at it. "Yes. I think we're here…"

"Duh," Dawn muttered. "That's what I said. Looks like I'd better circle round the block. Buffy, you ready?"

"Aren't I always?" Buffy asked, sizing up the building as they drove past. On the outside, it appeared to be no more than a shabby nondescript building that had definitely seen better days. The windows were securely covered up, and, if she weren't mistaken, there was a second door exiting into the cluttered back alley. Looked promising.

"Not that I can ever recall," Dawn retorted, "but why start now?"

"Yes, this is it," Andrew said more certainly, closely perusing the highlighted section of the map. "Or, one of them, anyway. Are all these places you've marked demon places? Are we going to have to go to them all?"

"As many as it takes," Buffy replied, hopping out of the car as Dawn pulled around the second time. "Although if I'm bitchy enough, I should be able to convince someone to cooperate, which should speed things up."

"So, not a problem then," Dawn replied innocently.

* * *

Buffy paused momentarily in the doorway. She'd done this many times, back in Sunnydale, but Sunnydale was long gone and it had been quite a while since she'd last walked into one of these joints. Over the last year, she'd spent most of her 'slayer' time in high level training and guidance; this kind of patrol work was pitched as a good front-line exercise for the new, inexperienced slayers, but not a priority for her anymore. 

She'd almost forgotten the strangeness of these places – the peculiar scent of the air; the odd, not-quite-natural sounds coming from the darkened corners; even the way her skin prickled with a vague awareness of the demonic… And, of course, the freakishly weird inhabitants were a dead giveaway.

Would it make her crazy to admit that she'd kind of missed it?

Squaring her shoulders and taking a combative stance, she decided the direct route was her best bet. "I'm looking for Angel," she declared, her bold announcement barely making a ripple in the room. "Angel, from…" Her mind blanked on the name again. "…from that Legal Evil law company."

A half-rasp of jeering laughter sounded from a nearby table. "Then you're gonna need a magnifying glass, girly. The wolf, the ram and the hart have terminated his contract." The demon that spoke was a large, ugly grayish-blue gorilla-shaped creature, showing all of its pointy teeth in what was probably supposed to be an intimidating expression.

Unimpressed, Buffy stepped forward, upending the table as she seized the demon by the shoulder and threw it against the wall. The creature yowled with pained surprise, obviously not having expected her strength. From the corner of her eye, she could see the rest of the room suddenly taking notice. Several of the demons started edging unobtrusively towards the exit at the back.

"What do you know about it?" Buffy demanded, twisting the demon's beefy arm behind its back and stepping forward to pin it in place. Her nose twitched. Ick. The matted fur smelled like… wet dog, or llama, or something. She tried to lean away from it while still keeping a firm grip.

"Nothing! I mean, nothing but what I heard."

She twisted his arm a little further. "Which was…?"

"Ow, okay! Okay. I heard there was some kind of meltdown. Dissension in the ranks. And that Angelus—"

"Angel," she corrected.

"—yeah, Angel, whoever, I heard he and his people turned on the company. Assassinations, internal warfare, that kind of thing. And…" He hesitated, but she tightened her grip on him, refusing to let him loose. "And… and that the senior partners ended up calling in the big guns to take them all down."

"And just what are 'the big guns?' "

"I… don't know."

"Don't give me that," she growled. "You're lying—"

"No! No, I'm not! I don't know — don't **want **to know… If you're anywhere near close enough to find out, you don't walk away to talk about it."

"Yeah? Well, I think you know more than you're saying. And if you don't talk about it a little more to me, you're **not** going to walk away. So tell me: what happened? Where are they now?"

Despite its fierce appearance, this demon was anything but tough, quickly caving under the pressure. "It's like I said—" its voice coming in a deep, grating protest, "—I wasn't near enough to find out. Got passed over, didn't I? But… but some of my friends – they were closer than me, and when it all went to hell, they got caught up in that vortex and carried away. Haven't been seen since—"

"I don't care," Buffy gritted, "about your friends," then paused. Vortex…? "What do you mean, like a portal?"

The demon made a snorting sound that wasn't a decipherable yes or no. "Anyone within reach – they all got pulled down into that hellhole."

"Anyone?" That was a horrible thought. "Even humans?"

"Of course not humans," came a brief sputtering of indignation. "Why would anyone care enough to go collecting humans?" The creature snuffled skeptically at the air, trying to crane its head toward her. "What is it about you, anyway, girl?" he whined. "You're more human than not – what do you care? – it ain't for you—"

"**I'm **the one asking the questions here," she reminded him curtly, then prodded further. "What else? What else can you tell me?"

"Nothing. There's nothing else. I can't. I won't," the creature sputtered, a note of panic burbling in the gravelly voice as she slammed him back against the wall. "Really, I don't know anything else."

"That's not good enough," she warned.

"Leave him be," a new voice interrupted, coming from close behind her. "He's said all that he's going to say."

Startled, Buffy half-turned. A few paces away, a tall and gangling figure stood watching her, looking very much like a garishly tattooed man with dreadlocks. And outside of this place, she might have mistaken him for just a freakishly over-decorated human. But in here, she knew to look closer, and even in the dim light, she could see the faintly discolored hue beneath the gaudily decorated skin, and she noticed the sharp points of his teeth and his fingers, and the way the dreadlocked hair seemed to shift of its own accord.

Buffy sized him up, noting that although he was a good deal taller than her, he also seemed much thinner and lighter. He looked like a painted scarecrow that would topple after a single punch. Still, she'd learned many times over that appearances could be deceiving.

Eyeing him warily, she decided on a challenging tone: "So maybe you can help me, then."

"Maybe." Noncommittal.

Well, as it didn't seem too likely that she was going to get anything else of use from the stinky ape-creature, 'maybe' was probably worth the risk.

Letting go of her captive, she stepped aside, and the furry gray-blue demon took off, all but huffing and puffing with relief as it beetled for the exit to make its escape. A brief strobe of daylight poured into the dismal room as the back door banged open, but the gloom resettled easily as it fell shut again behind the departing demon.

Buffy noted that the bar was now more than half-empty, with all of the remaining occupants appearing at least nominally human. Other than the one standing directly in front of her, everyone else was keeping their distance, watching with guarded interest.

"So, who are you?" Buffy asked.

"Does it matter?" The voice was reedy, thin as the rest of him.

"Maybe not," Buffy replied, her eyes narrowing as she watched him, on guard for any sign of aggression. Crossing her arms, she tucked one hand inside her jacket where she could reach her stake if need be. "Depends on what else you've got to say. What can you tell me that big-gray-and-ugly couldn't?"

Something flickered briefly over his features, but his eyes were flat and hard to distinguish from the dark decorations scrawling over his face. She didn't like it; it made him hard to read. Leaning slightly forward, he warned her in a conspiratorial tone, "I can tell you that one does not cross Wolfram & Hart and come away unscathed. You have come too late. The friends you have come looking for – they are probably dead now."

"Actually, they were dead a long time before I met either one of them," she retorted dryly, "so that shouldn't be a problem."

"Ah, yes, the vampires," he sighed, his head bobbing, as if in confirmation. "Of course."

Abruptly realizing she'd let a bit of information slip – _vampires – plural – not just Angel _– Buffy kicked herself inwardly, her jaw tightening as if that would help her guard her words. The less these creatures knew about her, the better.

"You know what?" she said tersely, going on the offensive. "How about we just fast-forward through your whole blah-de-blah disclaimer speech. I'm really not all that worried about the threat of corporate vengeance and woe from wolves, rams, or the three billy goats gruff – so let's just get on with it, okay? How can I find Angel and his friends?"

A dry rustle of laughter like leaves. "Angel," he said speculatively and paused for a long moment. "That one," he sighed slowly, "he will be at the center of every storm, a heart of darkness all his own."

Buffy stared. Was that supposed to be an answer? "I'm not big with the demony-poetry. In English, please."

Dreadlocks smiled, showing his narrow teeth, and put out his hands in a peaceable gesture. The taloned fingertips glittered. "He and his kind are gone. None of us left here know where the core of the portal lies, where it leads, or how to follow."

"So, basically, you don't know anything," Buffy summarized, her voice tight. He did not admit it, did not deny it, just stood there with his thin little smile. The bastard was just toying with her. Buffy's hands clenched. She briefly considered punching him in his tie-dyed face and tying his stringy hair in knots to match, but that seemed like way too much effort, and it would just slow her down. "Well, great," she said. "That's a whole lot of completely useless information. Thanks a lot, Tattoo." Turning on her heel, she headed for the doorway.

The reedy voice floated after her: "But… there is **someone** who would know—"

The sentence dangled there, unfinished, and it stopped her in her tracks. As it was obviously intended to. The words 'Who?' and 'Where?' were on the tip of her tongue, waiting to be spoken, but she tightened her lips to a hard line and did not speak.

Slowly, she turned back to face him. The demon was waiting expectantly. All of them – all the inhuman creatures left in this dingy little bar – were watching and waiting in expectant silence. Buffy wasn't about to jump at the bait quite that easily.

She wasn't stupid. The information he was dangling before her – it wasn't free – it was a barbed offer, with hidden hooks and snares. He wanted something. But then again, so did she.

"And you're just mentioning this now because you're such a helpful guy?"

Another softly amused laugh, and his ropy hair lifted slightly on a nonexistent breeze. It almost made her cringe – that subtle snakelike movement that was so startlingly inhuman – and some part of her wanted to just stake him and be done with it.

"Of course not," he replied bluntly. "Don't mistake this for kindness. It's not. You want to die, girl, I won't stop you. You come in here, asking for the directions to hell – I've got no reason to keep them from you. You're way out of your league, but if you want to walk to your doom, then yes, I'll help you. I've got no love for your kind."

Her kind. Did he mean, human? Or Slayer? But to ask that question might give him just a bit too much information. Some inner instinct warned her to be careful. For all that he looked flimsy and insubstantial, the fact that he was the only one standing here confronting her seemed to contradict that.

"And what do you get out of this?"

"Your continued absence, I hope," he replied with sly humour. "Not only have you disrupted our convivial gathering place here, but there's also something else about you…" He shrugged, a shiver that ran all the way through to his hair. "…it makes the skin crawl."

"The feeling's mutual," Buffy assured him. "So tell me who I need to talk to – and where I can find them – and I'll get out of your space, and hopefully we'll never see each other again."

A wide smile further creased his striped face. "I should be so lucky," he said slowly.

Buffy tensed as he reached into his pocket, but he only pulled out a small rectangular piece of paper and held it out to her. Snatching it from his hand without touching him, she glanced skeptically at the words printed on the business card. "Um, yeah, this is where they worked. But that office building is now a big pile of rubble – so this address is going to help me how?"

"You're not as smart as you look, are you? It's the name that's important."

"There's a name?" Buffy peered dubiously at the seemingly random letters. So, not an error in the typesetting, after all – just your everyday, unpronounceable demon name.

"That one – he was inner circle – close to your Angel – as close as any of them, right up to the end. And he's the only one left here, left alive, who can tell you what happened." A pause. "**If **you can make him talk."

Not a problem. "And where do I find him?"

"That's your concern, not mine. But surely this isn't the only establishment that you'd planned on slumming for information. Show the card to the barkeeps. They'll know who he is," he said with certainty.

Buffy pocketed the business card. "They'd better," she warned, trying to quell her misgivings. "If not, I'll be back."

"Oh, you're not coming back here," he said, his thin voice almost a whistle. "Not today and not tomorrow. I've got a feeling, girl, deep down inside, that you're just not coming back."

Buffy had a feeling too – that unsettled, giving-me-the-creeps, prickling on her skin kind of feeling. She really, really didn't like this guy. But no way in hell was she going to let him see it. Meeting his fixed stare without flinching, her voice was supremely self-confident as she replied, "Then I guess I'll see you in hell, Dreadlocks."

"Garosh," he answered. "My name is Garosh."

"Whatever. Thanks for the card." Throwing him a little wave, Buffy hit the exit and stepped gratefully back out into the bright light of the LA day, still trying to shake off the shadows.


	4. Chapter 4: Advice for the Lovelorn

Disclaimer: The characters of "Buffy the Vampire Slayer" and "Angel" belong to Joss Whedon and Mutant Enemy. The original characters are my fault. No copyright infringement intended, and as this is posted for free, and read for free, nobody is losing any money. Suing me won't make you any money either (haha! see my puny bank account!), so let's just not.

Concrit appreciated. Enjoy!

* * *

**Chapter 4: Advice for the Lovelorn**

Seen one demon bar, seen them all, Buffy decided. And at the rate she was going, maybe she **would **see them all.

This place was distinguishable from the other five she'd already blown through only by the level of decay. Dimly lit, with only the barest strands of murky sunlight filtering in through windows placed high upon the wall, it was quite the dive, even by demon standards.

And then gave her head a shake. She'd definitely stopped in at a few too many of these places if she was now starting to rate them. Heading straight for the bar, she brandished her business card. "I'm looking for this guy. Is he here?"

The human-looking bartender took the card, his eyes flicking back and forth from it to her, to elsewhere in the room, and back at her in quick succession. "What do you want here?" he rumbled in a very deep voice that didn't sound quite human. "I don't want any trouble."

Buffy perked up. That was actually a much more promising non-answer than she'd received so far. "Then tell me where he is, and I won't give you any trouble," she replied smoothly. "No smashing of furniture; no breaking of bones," she said, making it plain that she could do precisely that if she were so inclined. "I just want to talk."

Still wary, he handed the card back to her, then finally nodded his head toward one of the dingy corners of the room. Buffy turned to follow his gaze.

A few of the creatures frequenting the bar had taken note of her when she came in – some of them were now discreetly picking up their drinks and moving to the safely shadowed alcoves where Buffy suspected another exit must be. The occult grapevine must have been working overtime today, because by now most of the bad little boys and girls of demonland seemed to know that something was up and were actively trying to stay out of her way. That suited her just fine.

Paying no heed to the rest of the uglies, Buffy headed purposefully towards one of the few who'd shown no interest at all.

"You knew Angel?"

A dull, disinterested glance from the demon. "Who's asking?"

"I am."

A rude snort was the only reply she received.

"He told me," she pointed toward the bartender, who abruptly ducked his head and began scrubbing intently at an imaginary spot of one of the tables, "that this was you." She slapped the business card squarely down on the table in front of him. "That you were a friend of Angel's."

"Friend?" the green-skinned creature echoed speculatively, as if tasting the word. He picked up the card, giving it a bleary-eyed squint, then tore it in half and set the pieces aside. "Maybe I was once. But not any more."

"Why not?"

"Because, sweet-tart, at the end, Angel decided he didn't need friends. He needed good little soldiers with strong right arms. I'm not a soldier. And my right arm is not particularly strong. And so, here I sit, armed with my own unique brand of courage." He lifted his glass to her in mock salute. "Cheers."

"They told me," she persisted, "that you could tell me what happened."

"Weren't you listening, honey? I just did. Angel's gone. They're all gone. That's the end of it. And that's all I know."

"But you were there, weren't you?" she pressed. "They told me that you worked with him, with Angel."

"Yes." Such a tiny, bitter little syllable. "God help me, but, yes I was. I was there. I saw and I did. I passed 'go' and collected my $200. Or $200,000, as the case may be. But who's counting?" His sharp-featured face twisted into a grimace, and he glared at his drinking glass. "Anyway, doesn't matter. I told Angel I was done. Finished. I'd walked far enough down that path – further than I should have. And I told him so, I told him that I wouldn't be there, and I told him not to come after me. So whatever happened to them, wherever they went, I'm not following."

"I'm not asking you to. All I want is to know where they are. So that I can find them and—"

"There's nothing to find," he chuckled painfully, echoing the sentiments she'd heard in the last few demon bars she'd waded her way through, "and there's no one left alive who knows."

"But, they told me— There must be someone," she insisted, her voice hardening into a resolve that lay just short of menace. "And so far, you're the only one I've found who actually worked there—" A sudden inspiration lit within her mind. "Wait, do you know Cordelia?" she asked, the question little more than a shot in the dark, because from what she remembered from her earlier discussions with Giles, Cordelia had dropped off the radar before Angel switched sides. Which meant that anything she knew would probably be past its best-before date, but even that would be better than nothing. "She used to work with Angel too. She'll know – I want to talk to her."

"Cordy?!" Brief emotion flared in him, then went out. "Cordy's dead."

"Dead." Buffy echoed the word as if it had no meaning, shaking her head. "Cordelia? She can't be dead."

"Oh, believe me – she can be, and she is." He threw back another glass, giving a fierce shudder as if the flavour were particularly appalling. "Poor thing. But maybe it was for the best. She was lucky. Knew when to make her exit. Even after all that, everything she'd been through, she was still pure… never forgot who she was. What was important. Went out, fighting the good fight. Before it all went to hell… before we—" He looked up at her with red red eyes, his rambling speech shuddering to a halt. "You still here, butternut? I can't tell you anything. I've got nothing left to give."

There was a plaintive truth to his words that she couldn't help but believe. His eyes were haunted, and weariness hung upon him like a shroud. And yet, a glimmer of knowledge burned darkly behind his eyes, and she knew without a doubt that he **knew**. That he'd been there, and that he had all the answers that she'd come looking for.

"Cordelia Chase," she repeated, because she had to be certain, and because it couldn't be true.

But the demon nodded.

"How did it happen? Cordelia, I mean." It wasn't one of the questions she'd come here intending to ask, but somehow she couldn't wrap her mind around the idea that Cordelia could be dead. That she could die, and none of them know about it. True, they hadn't made much of an effort to keep in touch, but still…

Sunnydale, it seemed, had been the last string holding them all together. When they'd left it behind, they'd all begun to go their separate ways.

"When did she die?"

"A hundred years ago, it feels like. Weeks. Months. I don't know, sweetie. I can't really say. This," he said, hefting the bottle before him, "is how I measure time now. And time's a-wasting." He turned away from her, pouring another glass. "Been lovely chatting with you."

"Listen to me," she growled, taking him by the garishly-coloured shirt cloth to shove him back against the wall and pin him there – his glass tumbling sideways, and blood-red liquor spilling out over the tabletop and onto the floor, and she felt like crap for treating him this way, but it was the only way she ever knew to get through to someone – "I don't have time for this. I need answers. Now."

The demon winced at the iron-clad hold she was using against him. "Need? 'Need' is a strong word… but then you're a strong little thing, aren't you. What are you going to do – throttle it out of me?"

"Yes. No. I don't know."

"Makes two of us, Warrior Princess. So, while you're busy making up your mind, let's say you start by letting go of the windpipe."

He wasn't making any threatening moves, wasn't even fighting back, and if she wanted to make her point, she'd probably already done it. Easing up her grip, Buffy let him loose, taking a step back and standing ready in case he tried anything.

But he only stretched his neck and shoulders as if settling everything back into its proper place, then looked back upon her with an air of resignation. "Why don't you and I sit down, and let's try to work this out all nice and civilized. I know you don't want to – you're one of those Type A bash-and-smash warrior types – but that level of drama always gives me a headache. So do me a favour and humour me for a moment."

He sounded so reasonable about it that Buffy couldn't help feeling as if she were being the unreasonable one. Warily, she seated herself next to him.

"Bartender," he called, refilling his own overturned glass, "bring something for my fine, ferocious little friend here."

"Diet Coke," Buffy prompted.

The green-skinned demon snorted with a sad shake of his head. But when the glass was placed in front of her, he clinked it with his own. "Cheers," he said glumly. "To absent friends. For auld langsyne and whatnot…"

"Um… yeah," she agreed, even though she was mentally flashing back to silly party hats, midnight and Times Square. After a few moments of sipping at her drink in more or less companionable silence, Buffy glanced surreptitiously at her watch. Late afternoon – it would be getting dark soon. And yet here she was, sitting in a demon bar and drinking diet cola. It was turning out to be a very long, very strange day.

"So," she said at last, speaking when she became convinced that he'd never break the silence otherwise. Deciding to circle around the issue, she asked, "Can you at least tell me what happened to Cordelia?"

He answered with a tentative swirl of his drink, and a cagey question of his own. "Were you a friend of hers, cupcake?"

Her lips quirked a little bit at the casual endearment, so out of place when only a few moments ago she'd been halfway to strangling him. "Cordelia? Yeah, sure. I mean… sort of," she explained with an unexpected self-consciousness. "We went to high school together in Sunnydale… but after that, we mostly lost touch. Last time I saw her, she was here in LA, working for Angel. But that was… years ago."

"Yes, Cordy was working for Angel. Got sucked into the big guy's crusade against evil. There's something about him," he mused, "that just makes people want to drop whatever they're doing and join his cause. There's the mission, the prophecies, inspiring speeches, secret decoder rings… makes you think that you're a part of something worthwhile, something special. Who knows, maybe we were. But I'm boring you with back-story, aren't I? Cordy received visions from 'the Powers that Be.' " His hands mimed an exaggerated quotation around the words, contempt glimmering in his eyes. "Supposed to help guide Angelkins down the one true path to his destiny. Seemed like a good idea at the time… and then it all went pear-shaped with the Beast, and Jasmine…" He paused, peering at her. "…but, no, that's too long a story, and from the looks of you, your patience is finite. Long story short: the second-last batch of 'PTB' intervention left Cordy in a coma. The very last vision ended up killing her."

"Oh."

"Yes," he replied dryly, " 'oh.' After that, it all went to hell in a very swift handbasket. Of course, it was a short trip, since we were more than halfway there already, but too blind to see it at the time." He paused, casting a caustic look in her direction. "But you don't really care about any of that, do you?"

Taken aback, she started, "I do care," but even she could hear the weakness of her protest. "It's just…" Too much, too sudden, too different from what she'd been expecting? She wasn't sure. Though she believed he was telling her the truth, still it didn't feel real. As if it were only an echo of other losses. Her mother, and Tara, and Anya, and all the others who had died in Sunnydale… Never enough time for grieving – always something else to be done.

"Right now, what I really need is to know what happened to the others," she pressed, unapologetically trying to get him to pick up on that one thread that she really wanted to follow. "I can't think about anything else until I get that worked out."

"I'm beginning to realize that," he sighed.

"So what happened?" she asked, impatiently trying to get past the weird back-and-forth conversational negotiation and down to business. She was much better with the punching-you-in-your-face-until-you-talk discussion style, but not only did that not feel right in this case, something also told her it wouldn't work with this guy. "And where did they all go? At the other bar, one of the demons told me that there was some big showdown with that law firm, Wolfman—"

"Wolf**ram**," he corrected.

"—whatever, and Hart. And something about a portal that took them all away. And after that, nobody else knows what happened next, or if they do, they aren't saying, but they said that you would know."

He pinched the bridge of his nose with a pained look on his face, as if the sound of her voice were a particularly nasty headache that he couldn't quite get rid of. "All right, all right; let's just back up a smidgen here, sunshine. You keep saying 'they.' Who is 'they?' "

"I didn't get a whole lot of names," she replied, with an exasperated wave of her hand. "I got your business card from some carny-lowlife-look-alike who said his name was Garish, or something like that."

"Garosh," he echoed hollowly, then shook his head. "You know something, sweetpea? Of all the things you could have said to try to work your way into my good graces, 'Garosh sent me' is not one of them. It's not in the top twenty – it didn't even make it onto the list of alternates. Now, I don't know what game you're playing at, or what you really want from me—"

"Hey! Nobody **sent **me here. And this isn't about **you**. I didn't come to LA for you; I came for—" Hauling herself up short before she once again said too much, Buffy tried to calm down and stay on topic. "I've got my own reasons, which have nothing to do with you. I'm just trying to find my friends, okay? So when I got here, I started hitting up the demon bars for information—"

"You mean, hitting up the clientele in the demon bars for information. There's a subtle distinction."

She glared at him. "It's not like anyone ever answers my questions when I just ask nicely," she pointed out. "…Anyway, this Garosh guy just barges in, tells me that no one really knows what and where and why, except you. And then he gave me your business card, which was way too convenient, but still… I don't actually have a lot of contacts left in LA. I thought it was worth a try."

"Hmm." He was peering at his drinking glass so intently that she wasn't sure if he were more intent on measuring her words or the quantity of alcohol remaining. "Assuming you're telling the truth – and yes, I do know what happens when you assume – it's still not a good crowd for you to be running with. Or running from, either, for that matter."

"I'm not doing either," she retorted defensively, feeling a hint of uneasiness. Not yet, at least. "And I can take care of myself. And besides, who is this Garosh, anyway?"

He threw her an odd look. "You really do rush in where angels fear to tread, don't you? Garosh… he's the next big thing in the demon world – in some circles, anyway. Thinks he's a seer, or a prophet. I think he's yet another apocalyptic nutbar waiting for the end of this world and the beginning of the next. Don't know if he's the real thing or not – and, well, when it comes right down to it, I don't actually care – but if I were you, munchkin, I'd stay out of his way." He shrugged. "For what it's worth."

Buffy considered that for a moment, then brushed it aside. She didn't need to know about this – not right now – it wasn't important – and anyway, she hadn't come to LA to find out who was who in demon high society, and she wasn't necessarily planning on sticking around long enough to need to worry about it. Maybe she'd tell Andrew to send a memo off to Giles later, but that was all she was prepared to do at the moment. "I appreciate the advice—" she began carefully.

"Oh, wait for it," he muttered sourly, not quite under his breath, "here comes the big 'but.' "

"—but it's not my problem. I don't want to get mixed up in any of that. I just want to know about what happened to Angel," she reiterated. "Angel, and – and the others with him."

A muffled groan. "Do we have to go through this again—?"

"Yes, again, and I'm not going to quit asking until you tell me what you know. I need to find out what happened, if there were any survivors…" Her voice stumbled only slightly on that word. "…and where they went."

"You've got a one-track mind, Sister Golden-Hair; you keep asking the same thing and getting the same answer. You ever stop to consider that maybe you aren't asking the right questions?"

"All right, then. What's the right question?"

"Do I look like I know? Would I be sitting here, drinking the days away, if I knew?"

Buffy clenched her teeth. "Listen," she barked, "I don't know what your deal is. And right now, I don't really care. You can sit here and drown yourself in your sorrows for all I care – as long as you tell me how to find them."

His eyes flicked warily toward her. "Who says they want to be found? Who says there's anything left to find?"

"One way or another," she gritted, meeting his piercing red-eyed gaze without flinching, "I need to know."

"Sing something for me."

"What?"

"You heard me." His demeanor had been shifting periodically between tattered affability and outright self-loathing – this was the first moment she'd heard a note of unyielding resolve in his voice. "It's a one-time offer. I don't do this any more. Everything I hear now, it's like a dirge. Everything tainted. But you – you wouldn't know what that's like, would you? A bright perfect little thing like you."

She squirmed uncomfortably under his flatly dismissive gaze. "You don't know anything about me."

"And I don't want to, Goldilocks, so don't even think of boring me with your life's story. Let's just finish playing out this scene, so that we can both go back to what we'd rather be doing. Sing. Something. Anything. And then I'll tell you what you want to know. Whether or not you want to hear it."

"You're serious."

He said nothing at all, only watched her as he waited expectantly. The silence between them stretched on and on.

" 'Did you ever know that you're my hero,' " she finally sang, in a self-conscious voice just barely above a whisper – and she was embarrassed at her voice, at the schmaltzy sentimentality of the song she was singing, but it was the only thing that had come to mind, and somehow, when he stared at her so intently, crimson eyes peering into her own, she couldn't help but continue to sing – " 'you're everything I wish I could be, and I can fly higher than' — okay, this is stupid, I can't believe I'm even doing this. Why—?"

"Yes," he stated, in abrupt answer to a question she hadn't spoken aloud. "He's alive. Or was alive as vampires get, anyway. I believe the polite term is 'undead.' He spoke of you, several times. Never sang for me, though, so I'm afraid I can't put your mind at rest. You'll have to ask him yourself – if you can find him. Although, I see that you're ready to move heaven and earth to do just that – that's good, because that's about what it's going to take."

No words would come to her lips. She stared at him, frozen, her mind trying to process the words he was speaking. Did he know—? How could he possibly—? She'd been so careful, had never said – hadn't even spoken his name – not even once—

His lips quirked briefly upward in a smirk. "Don't bottle it up; love shouldn't ever be kept a secret. Makes you bitter." And he laughed softly, as if that were some kind of joke.

"I… don't know what you're talking about," she said, her voice very high and thin.

"Maybe you do; maybe you don't. Never mind, darling; it's not like there's anyone left for me to tell. The answer to your other question," he added, "because there were two very distinct questions there, is no. Angel may have lost his way, but he hasn't lost himself. Though he's sometimes been evil's pawn, he's not evil himself. But you have to understand – he's wedded to that fight. He set himself on that path with no intention of turning back. Said his goodbyes, took care of his loved ones, fully expected to die. I don't know," he sighed, "I don't know if they actually did die. I just knew – the same way all of us did – that it was the end. And so I made my own decisions, said my goodbyes, and chose my own ending, the way everyone eventually does.

"So, there. That's enough. That's what you needed to know… and maybe a little bit more, besides." Reaching out, he patted her hands absently in an oddly comfortingly gesture, even as his eyes still burned intently into her own. "Go on. Do what you have to. After all, the good guys always win in the end, don't they?"

With a start, she realized that he'd finally decided to give her the information she'd come for. Mentally shifting gears, Buffy tried to get back in control of the situation. If she'd ever actually been in control of any of it. "Where… where do I go?"

"As you've probably already figured out, it was all kinds of mayhem that night, with a whole kit and caboodle of carnage scattered everywhere – makes the trail that much harder to follow. And maybe that's not such a bad thing." He took a deep breath and seemed to hold it for a long moment, giving her one last measuring look before finally answering.

"But if I were coming, I was supposed to meet them," he said, the words slowly sighing out in tired resignation, "in the alley behind the old Hyperion Hotel. From what I know, I'd say that's where the last big smackdown took place. There's not much left now, but if there are any answers, you'll find them there. Don't know where that is?" he queried, correctly interpreting the blank look on her face, and he began scrawling directions on a napkin in front of him. "You start at the end, and work your way backwards. Ironic, that. Spent our lives, going in circles – better off not to have started," he murmured, and then seemed to shake off his distraction. He handed the flimsy piece of paper to her. "Here. Don't make me regret this – I've already got more than enough of those as it is."

"I won't." She glanced down at the mini-map he'd drawn for her. This was the point that she usually whirled on her heel and left, having got what she needed, but this time she lingered a moment longer. "Thank you," she said sincerely, and then added, "I'm sorry."

"No more than I." He sank back in upon himself, lounging brokenly over the table, contemplating the bottle as if plotting his next move.

Buffy had had more than enough of the atmosphere and the woe. She made her way to the door, pausing only as he called out after her, "Good luck, Buffy Summers." Glancing questioningly back at him, she was very much aware that she had not once given him her name, nor told him what she was. His gaze glittered upon hers with an odd acceptance. "I hope you find what you're looking for."


	5. Chapter 5: Hyperion North

Disclaimer: The characters of "Buffy the Vampire Slayer" and "Angel" belong to Joss Whedon and Mutant Enemy. The original characters are my fault. No copyright infringement intended, and as this is posted for free, and read for free, nobody is losing any money. Suing me won't make you any money either (haha! see my puny bank account!), so let's just not.

Author's Notes and Lame Excuses: Sorry for the delay in getting this chapter out. RL has kept me very busy in the last little while and it hasn't been easy finding the time to write. It's a long-ish chapter, so hopefully that makes up for the delay. :-) Concrit appreciated. Enjoy!

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**Chapter 5: Hyperion North**

"This is the place?"

Buffy scuffed the toe of her boot against the ground, dislodging a soft plume of sooty earth. The area was cordoned off with multiple signs, but Andrew had directed the car around the barricades with ridiculous ease, insisting that whatever had happened had been mystical, not structural, so they were in no danger. Looking around now, Buffy wasn't quite so sure of that, but then, she'd been the one who had insisted on coming here, so she wasn't about to argue.

"This **was **the place," Andrew corrected. "According to the map, anyway, that's the Hyperion Hotel."

Though the building's street-side frontage still boasted what appeared to be a strong and sturdy exterior, from their current vantage point, the extent of the damage was obvious. Buffy stared up at the half-charred skeleton of the hotel, its upper floors a chaotic mess of blackened wood and tumbled debris that had already partially fallen in upon itself. She wondered how much longer the building could bear up under the weight of that kind of structural damage – whether it would continue to stand indefinitely, hiding its ruin behind its front façade, or whether it would eventually fall to pieces one day and save the city the time and effort of the wrecking ball.

"Not an architect," Dawn said, "but still, that looks like structural damage to me, Andrew."

"Well, there's maybe a little bit of both," he conceded, "to the untrained eye. But, with the proper expertise, one can easily see the signs and portents that indicate this was all caused by a mystical event. It has a completely different vibe."

"If you say so," Dawn shrugged, casting an appraising gaze back at the building. "It looks like it was pretty. It could be again, if someone fixed it up."

"Okay, Mr. Expertise: translate me some signs and portents already. What happened here?" Buffy asked bluntly, not caring to join in the speculation as she let some of her attention shift to the surrounding buildings – mostly decrepit, abandoned warehouses from the looks of it. Though they too were oddly singed and battered, they appeared to have been spared the worst of whatever storm had been called down on this spot.

"Um… well, I haven't verified all the details yet," Andrew said, rooting through the overstuffed portfolio that he'd brought along with him – conspicuously labeled 'Confidential! Andrew's Eyes Only!' "But I can tell you that the building was registered to a 'Mr. Angel'—" Andrew paused to smirk. "Ooh, great job with the secret identity… Not! —but anyway, it used to be the location of 'Angel Investigations.' Something about 'helping for less,' or something like that. I had a brochure, but—" He riffled awkwardly through his jumbled collection of papers. "—can't find it now. Anyway, for the last year, it was supposedly vacant after Angel traded up to Wolfram & Hart, aka WRH. The hotel was damaged by fire around the same time that the WRH office tower collapsed – maybe the same night; the reports are a bit jumbled. Police reports said it was probably arson, that there were vagrants living here, et cetera, et cetera."

"And Giles?" Buffy prompted evenly. "What did he say?"

Andrew shifted uneasily. "He never mentioned the Hyperion to me per se," he replied slowly, once again uncomfortably aware of his conflicting allegiances, "…just that he and Willow knew that the locus of the mystical energies originated in LA. But, you know, I'd actually kind of thought that would have been at the Wolfram & Hart offices."

"We didn't find anything there," Buffy reminded him. Just a whole lot of shiny new trucks and cranes and backhoes, and a big billboard advertising the 'New Wolfram & Hart Coming Soon.' The hard-hatted workers on site had been decidedly non-demonic and had nothing of interest to tell her.

"Are we going to find anything here?" Dawn asked.

"Only one way to find out," Buffy decided. Turning back to the car, she opened the trunk, retrieving her shiny new sword. Just purchased today at a multipurpose renfaire shop, with period replicas at the front of the store, and the more useful demon-hunting weaponry in the back.

"Do you really think we'll need weapons?"

"We always need weapons," Buffy said with certainty, also stuffing her trusty stake into her jacket pocket for good measure. Striding purposefully forward, she began to make her way along the perimeter of the property.

"Um…" Another rattling of paper and scuffling of footsteps as Andrew struggled to catch up with her. "Aren't you… aren't you going inside the hotel?"

"Inside that?" She gestured at the dilapidated building next to them. "Do I look crazy, Andrew? The correct answer to that question is 'no.' Besides, the hard-drinking Yoda talked about the alley **behind** the Hyperion, so that's where we'll start."

Andrew nodded momentarily, then his eyes lit up. "Yoda…?"

"Well," she hedged, "he was green. Close enough, right?"

"Not actually—"

"Guys?" Dawn's voice interrupted. She followed only a few steps behind, looking back and forth dubiously. "What exactly are we looking for?"

"I don't know," Buffy admitted, "but I'm betting I'll know it when I see it."

Not for the first time, Buffy wished she'd come alone, as she was unable to completely block out the sounds of Andrew's running commentary: "…well, there's some trash… some garbage… a dead rat or something over there… and I don't even want to contemplate what that is… you know, the last time I was here, Spike taught me a lot about tracking, I think he really respected what I'd done with my life… he and I went on patrol together, maybe I can find something…" And Dawn's brief interjection, "what are you doing with… eww! Andrew! That's so gross!"

Buffy didn't even bother to turn and look, trying to keep focused on her search. What kind of markings would mystical energy leave behind? Scorch marks? Skid marks? Big, black, evil-looking stains? How was she going to be able to tell the difference between that and whatever gunk was already in this alley? Problem was, she just didn't know these kinds of things. She'd always relied on the experts, like Giles and Willow, to fill her in on the arcane details. Except that Giles and Willow had never wanted her to find out about this at all, and if they had any idea where she was right now, she didn't doubt that they'd be on their way here to try to talk some sense into her. She didn't relish the thought of that confrontation. Both for their sake and her own.

"I'm telling you, it tasted evil," Andrew was saying. "We must be getting closer."

"Could you keep the commentary to a minimum, please," Buffy finally barked. "I'm trying to concentrate here."

Paradoxically, Andrew's obsequious silence was almost as annoying as his prattling. Buffy gritted her teeth and walked onward. She reached the corner of the property – pausing there, Buffy eyed the narrow, shadowed alleyway that led north behind the Hyperion.

"I don't like it," Andrew dared comment in a hushed voice. "It's kind of… dark."

That it was, boxed in on both sides by the crumbling walls of abandoned buildings. Most of them showed fire damage as well, probably from the same battle that had done such damage to the Hyperion. "What did you expect? It's evening," Buffy replied resolutely. "And it's only going to get darker. Let's get it over with before the vamps – or worse – come out to play. Both of you keep close."

"No argument from me," Dawn murmured quietly.

"I don't like it here," Andrew was whispering under his breath, probably to himself, "I really really do not like it here…"

Buffy completely understood the sentiment. It felt colder here, felt darker than it was, and she had no doubt that she was near… whatever it was that she was looking for. Her heart clenched briefly, but she didn't pause to examine it. Forward. Forward. Her heels clacked ominously in the unnaturally thick silence, and she tried not to look too closely at the many clumps of unidentifiable garbage strewn underfoot. The alley seemed to lead nowhere, and even from this distance, she could see there was no exit – the other end was blocked. Dead end.

She noted an abrupt gaping hole in part of the chain link fence bounding the alley, it edges shorn neatly away, with no debris left behind. A freshly-scrubbed clean patch? As she walked past, her skin prickled, with cold, with anticipation. Keep going. Just go forward. Find what she was—

"Oooohh," Dawn's voice, sounding first as a startled whimper, then rising rapidly into a shriek, "Buffy!!"

Buffy whirled, sword in hand, ready for almost anything… except that.

Dawn stood only a few steps behind Andrew and Buffy, a dazzling green light blazing from her eyes, luminous traces of green energy rippling along her hair, leaking from the edge of her fingertips. "I think I've found something," Dawn whispered, and vivid green light spilled from her lips as she spoke. "A door."

"Dawn!" Almost a shriek, her sister's name tore from her throat as if it were made only of sharp edges. "What's happening? Are you all right?"

"Yeah," her sister replied, and to hear her normal voice coming from the glowing figure standing transfixed before them was intensely surreal. "Yeah, I think I am." She sounded almost surprised by that. "I just wasn't expecting this – it sort of startled me at first."

That must have been the understatement to end all others. Buffy felt as if someone had kicked her in the stomach, or dropped her on her head, knocking all the breath out of her. It was like Sunnydale – that night in Sunnydale, when she'd done that spell-seeing ritual: the dreamlike, dizzying feeling as she'd suddenly been able to see part way through the magic-laden reality that had been shrouded over her home. Flickering visions of what was, and what wasn't. She'd never quite forgotten the sight of Dawn in that moment – the terrifying, heart-wrenching realization that her little sister was not what she thought she was.

It swept over her again, the same feeling, and she was reliving so many moments she wanted to forget. "You're still the Key," she realized, stricken. Still in danger, then; still a threat, an opportunity, a tool to be used and misused if anyone else found out…

"I guess so." In contrast, Dawn's voice was light with wonderment, but she seemed to register Buffy's concern. "Don't worry, Buffy – I'm fine. I'd forgotten what it felt like, but… it's coming back to me." A tiny shimmer of laughter came from her. "Kind of tickles."

"Dawn, stop it. Can you stop it—?" Stop; stop now before it's too late…

But Dawn was shaking her head, she was giddy, as if spellbound by her own transformation. "Wait, Buffy, I can see something. I can see it… there's a door here. A way through to somewhere else. I can see… pieces of what happened. Shadows. Angel was here. And Spike." She smiled, a flash of bright green radiance. "Others with them, too, but not so many – a very strange woman, and a dying man… They all came here. They were fighting. It's… unbelievable. Demons. Giants. Dragon…? Whoa. Very angry. So much at once. It looks… like the sky is going to fall in. Or the earth is going to twist apart. There's a door. A door opened up beneath them, and they all went through."

"Through to where…?"

"To… the other side. I'm sorry, I can't see any further than that. It's somewhere else, too far away, and it's shut. Very tightly shut. But… it's like there's a crack – like I can almost feel a draft. I think…" She hesitated, a flicker of concentration. "I think I can open it again." A long pause. "Should I…?"

Buffy was shocked to find herself pausing to consider that, because that was why she had come here. To find answers. And if there were any hope, to find him. To end or begin things between them. Properly.

But this was a dangerous maneuver, to try to open this portal, and Dawn— With what had just happened, Buffy didn't dare risking anything happening to Dawn—

Perhaps her sister read those fears in her face, for she said, "I'm okay, Buffy. This is what I am, what I always was. Nothing has changed. Look." Dawn abruptly stepped backward, seeming to shake off the energy that was flowing around her with a few shrugs of her shoulders. The green light crackled briefly about her, then winked out completely. "See? All back to normal."

"That… that was… so very amazing…" Andrew stuttered in halting awe, finally capable of speech, though his jaw was still half-hanging open. "You're like… some green goddess superhero…"

"Thanks!" Dawn said perkily, with a brilliant smile that dimmed only slightly when she looked towards Buffy. "It's okay," she said again. "Really, it is, Buffy. I feel… amazing. Whole. For the first time since… ever. And this, this ability, it feels like it's mine; it felt **right**. And don't you see? – I can use this, I can use this to help you."

"Dawn…" So many words. She didn't have a clue as to which ones she was going to speak. Be careful. Wait. Slow down. You don't know what you're doing. We can't take the risk. I don't want to lose you.

Dawn caught at her hand. "I'm still me, Buffy. You're still my sister. Why… why do you have to look so tragic? Talk to me."

Buffy tried very hard not to look tragic, but couldn't quell the ache in her chest. "It's just…" The words caught in her throat. "Dawn… I wanted you to be able to have… a normal life."

"I'm sorry to disappoint," and if Dawn heard Buffy's inarticulate protest, she continued to talk over it, "but I can't change what I am. And this is it, Buffy. This is me. Besides…" Dawn gave her a lopsided smile. "…normal's way overrated. Been there, done that… and it was getting a little boring. Admit it."

"Me…?"

"Hooking up with a supernatural celebrity who calls himself 'The Immortal?' Come on."

Her face flushed. "Not fair. When I first met him, I didn't know he was—"

"Okay, whatever." Dawn waved her argument away. "But you're still a Slayer. Even if you're not the 'one and only,' you know how all of the new ones look up to you. You train them, and they think you're some kind of legend. And you and Giles and Willow and Xander – Sunnydale and the Hellmouth are both long gone, and you're all still out there, following mystical trails and fighting demons and monsters. Nothing's changed. Maybe it's time to admit that none of us are ever going to be normal."

"Exactly," Andrew offered in helpful agreement. "I'm not normal either."

Buffy couldn't help the sputter of laughter that burst from her. "You're right. Okay, I admit it – you're both right. Happy now?"

Dawn's hands tightened on hers. "I want to help, Buffy. Let me help."

The scuffling noise of footsteps drawing nearer put an end to the conversation. All three of them turned towards the approaching sound, and Buffy suddenly remembered exactly where they were. Stepping protectively in front of Dawn and Andrew, she brought her sword to the ready.

"Someone's coming," Andrew mouthed in a horribly loud whisper.

Inwardly, Buffy berated herself for having been careless enough to stand here so long. Now, the shadows around them were deep, and this spot wasn't exactly the most defensible position. "Be ready for anything," she hissed under her breath, hoping Andrew was up to the challenge. "There's no telling what's going to come around that corner—"

Whatever she'd been expecting, it wasn't that.

Blue jeans, sneakers, and a windbreaker. It was only a young man. Tall-ish and thin-ish with brown hair just long enough to get in his eyes, he didn't look like much of a threat. If he were out of his teens, then it was only by a few years.

But Buffy remembered that she herself had been lethal at that age, and she noted that this young man held a roughly sharpened wooden stake in his right hand.

"Who are you?"

Almost simultaneously, the same question came from the both of them. Buffy shifted vigilantly on her feet, not quite willing to lower her stance yet. "You shouldn't be here," she cautioned him warily. "It's not safe."

A momentary pause as he took in the scene, and then his lips twitched slightly in a smirking of amusement. "I may not have a broadsword, but I do know how to take care of myself, thanks."

"That's **so** not a broadsword," Andrew began.

Buffy cut short Andrew's incipient commentary by barking another question at the intruder: "What do you want here?"

"I could ask you the same question," he countered evenly, sizing her up for a moment before deciding to give her an answer. "I'm looking for someone."

"Found someone you have, I would say," Andrew began saying in a singsong voice, but he hushed abruptly at Dawn's scolding, "Andrew—!"

"While carrying a stake," Buffy prompted doubtfully.

"Yeah. So? You're waving a sword around," he pointed out.

Andrew gasped, and suddenly craned his neck to see past Buffy. "A stake…? Are you… some kind of male slayer…?" he asked in an overawed voice.

"Oh," the boy said, an undefined comprehension flickering over his face. "You're some of the slayers? Seem to be everywhere these days…"

He knew what a Slayer was. That could be good; that could be bad. Buffy really wasn't certain.

"Hah!" Andrew scoffed. "She's not 'some of' – she's THE Slayer. Or maybe more like the Alma Mater of Slayers, anyway, I guess, now that there's so many of them – or maybe Faith would technically be—"

"Alma Mater?" Dawn echoed unobtrusively. "Doesn't that usually mean a University or something…?"

"Okay, possibly," Andrew conceded, flustered. "Latin's not easy, you know, Dawn—"

"Andrew," Buffy gritted through clenched teeth, "I swear to God, if you say one more thing—"

"They said there weren't many of your kind in LA," the young man informed Buffy, obviously deciding to overlook Andrew and Dawn's asides. "Slayers, I mean. That Wolfram & Hart – or maybe Angel – kept you away. But I guess things have changed." After a moment, he dropped his arm, relaxing his combative stance. "I'm Connor."

"Buffy," she responded reflexively, slowly lowering her sword arm to her side, even as her head whirled with the sound of his words. Angel. "You knew Angel?" Friend or foe, then? And, more importantly… "Do you know what happened here?"

Though it was difficult to see his face in the darkening half-light, she caught sight of a frown. "Big fight," he replied succinctly, "and now lots of vampires come skulking around here, looking for relics. That's what I thought you three were, at first," he admitted.

"Relics?" Andrew asked in puzzlement.

"No. Vampires," he stressed. Shooting a dubious look towards Andrew, he asked under his breath, "Is he on something?"

"He's just… high on life," Dawn replied with a barely suppressed smile. "You get used to him eventually. So, um, not that I'm trying to change your mind or anything, but how do you know we're **not **vamps?"

"The two of you are wearing crosses," Connor nodded observantly, "and him… Nah. I just can't see it. Even for a fledgling—"

"You know an awful lot about vampires," Buffy interjected, unable to keep the suspicion completely out of her voice. "Where'd you learn it?"

"Discovery Channel," he replied flippantly. "You'd be amazed at what they're showing these days."

A tiny snicker of laughter from Dawn, but Buffy wasn't so easily diverted.

"Just seem to have a knack for it," he said evasively, when Buffy's pointed glare didn't yield. "Guess it's in my blood."

Acutely aware that wasn't a clear answer either, Buffy snapped the cross away from the chain about her neck and tossed it at Connor. He caught it neatly in his palm and held it there for a moment before throwing a wry look back at her, and lifting his hand to display his unburned skin.

"Just checking," she shrugged unapologetically. "I like to be sure." And then changed the subject: "You mentioned Angel."

"Yeah," Connor said, handing the cross back to her. "I did."

"So what else can you tell me about him?" she asked briskly.

"Big guy. Tall. Wears a lot of black, and used to have a big office downtown. That kind of fell apart, though. Why are you so interested?"

"I'm an…" Ex-girlfriend? Ex-lover? Ally, opponent, something in between? "…an old friend," she finally settled upon, even though the words felt too open-ended and unresolved.

"Really." A dry, deadpan response. "Funny – you don't look so old."

Dawn made a 'snerk'ing sound behind her, and Buffy was glad that someone was finding all of this amusing.

"You know," Connor suggested in the next moment, glancing askance at their surroundings, "if you want to stand around and do the whole twenty questions thing, this really isn't the best place to be doing it. Especially this time of evening. Even if you guys are Slayers—"

"Oh, I'm not a Slayer," Andrew demurred quickly. "I'm a Junior Watcher."

Connor just stared, as if that sentence made no sense whatsoever.

"I watch **her**," Andrew tried to clarify, starting to point at Buffy, who promptly slapped his hand away. "Ow."

"I'm not a Slayer either," Dawn chimed in.

"Okay, then," Connor replied as if that settled it, "all the more reason to move to a safer location—"

"No." Buffy's refusal was absolute; she could feel herself mentally digging in her heels even as Dawn tried to persuade her otherwise. This was the place. The portal was here. Dawn was here. And if Buffy delayed too long, then maybe Willow and Giles would be here and they'd want to talk her out of what she planned to do. "Whatever happened," she explained urgently, "it happened **here **– and I'm not leaving until I get some answers. And you," she said, whirling back to face Connor, "need to quit dodging the questions and tell me what you know."

" 'Need…?' " he echoed incredulously. With a frown, Connor backed away a half-step, and Buffy noted the furtive defensive movement of his hand toward the stake he was carrying. "I already told you everything I know."

"No, you didn't. How do you know Angel?" she persisted, zeroing in on the point where Connor seemed most evasive.

"He helped me out."

"How?"

"Algebra," he retorted with a roll of his eyes, before fixing her with an especially piercing gaze. "None of your damn business."

"And we're supposed to believe that – what? – it's just coincidence that you're **here **– now – when we're—"

"When you're what?" he pounced, his eyes narrowing suspiciously. "Just what are the three of you doing here, anyway? It can't be anything good, or you wouldn't be so twitchy. And this is a bad place to begin with—"

"And what do you know about that?" she gritted. "Whatever it is you know – whatever it is you're hiding – I **need **to know it—"

"Buffy," Dawn interceded, a gentle hand on her arm. "Maybe he's right. This doesn't have to be a fight. Maybe we **should** go somewhere else for a bit – just calm down a little and talk—"

"I don't have the time for 'maybe,' Dawn," Buffy snapped, never once taking her eyes off of the boy. "And I'm not looking for a fight," she said, both to Dawn and to Connor, "I just need to get this done."

"I know you do," her sister said, her voice low and soothing in her ear. "I know. But you get so focused – you run all over everyone. How is this helping? Just back off for a minute and let me talk to him."

"What do you think you can say that I can't?" she countered.

"Buffy. Please. Trust me."

"Fine." Throwing up her hands, Buffy turned away to pace in exasperation, trying not to think of how close she was now, the time they were wasting, and the way things always went wrong at the last minute.

Even though Dawn had drawn Connor a few steps away and was speaking in a hushed voice, Buffy could still overhear their muffled conversation.

"Hey. So… I'm Dawn."

"Connor."

"Yeah. I heard."

"So what's **her **deal?"

"Um, well… Slayer-on-a-mission. When they're in that mode, you either help out, or you get out of the way."

"And so you're helping. I've gotta ask why, because she seems pretty overbearing."

"Buffy's my sister."

"Huh. Too bad. Here I was just starting to like you."

"Hey—!"

"Okay, okay," he laughed softly, lifting his hands in appeasement, "I take it back. I know as well as anyone that you can't choose your own relatives." He frowned. "Usually."

"Well," Dawn hedged, "who knows, maybe I could have if I'd… I mean, there were these monks… oh, never mind. It's a long story and way complicated."

"I know the feeling."

"You do?"

"Oh yeah. But, like you said… long story."

"Some other time then." Dawn fiddled with her hair, smiling. Connor smiled back.

Buffy groaned inwardly. Great. Just great. "All right. I'm as patient as the next person," she said in her best imitation of patience, and conveniently ignoring Andrew who was standing patiently next to her, "but can you two actually try to get to the point? Which, in case anyone's forgotten," she began counting items off on her fingers, "is Vampires-Apocalypse-Portal-and-Wolfram & Hart – hopefully sometime **before **someone else shows up uninvited to screw things up. So if it's all right with the both of you, let's skip to the end of the 'young love' scene, okay?"

"Buffy!" Dawn exclaimed, with more than a hint of a mortified shriek in her voice. "I can't believe you just– Look," she turned back to Connor, her face a bit flushed, "she's not trying to be bitchy—"

"Oh, so it just comes natural, then, does it?"

"Kind of," Dawn answered ruefully. "Sometimes. When she's stressed. It's just that there's someone," she said haltingly, then glanced over her shoulder back at Buffy, and drew Connor a few steps further away. When she continued speaking, her voice was too low to be overheard.

Buffy tried very hard not to pull out her hair. Waiting. She was no good with the waiting. There was an agitated, expectant knot in her stomach, as if an alarm clock were about to go off somewhere. Maybe it was what Willow had described as 'mystical aftershocks' in the area that were now playing on her nerves. Or maybe it was just her own indecision.

Very old and very powerful magic, Willow had said. Couldn't be opened. Shouldn't. Buffy could almost feel it thrumming beneath her feet, like a monster waiting to be wakened. Was she making a huge mistake, in coming here? In trying to do this?

And what about Dawn? If she were still a Key, and Glory had needed her blood to open the portal… was Buffy now putting Dawn at risk, by even being here, this close to the portal?

Could she live with herself, if something went wrong? Alternatively, could she live with herself, if she came all the way here only to turn around and walk away again?

Buffy shut her eyes. This was a hell of an inopportune time to start having second thoughts.

"It's good," Andrew commented beside her, "the way you trust Dawn to parley for you." He paused for a moment. "Um… so, anyway, how is it that she turned green like that? Is that some kind of Slayer thing? Or, I guess since she's not a Slayer, a Slayer-sibling thing?"

"It's yet another long and complicated story is what it is," Buffy sighed. "Ask Dawn about it later; I'm sure she'll tell you all about it. That is," she amended, "if you can ever pry her away from Vamp Hunter, Jr. over there."

Dawn and Connor were still quietly conversing, and though Dawn appeared to be winning him over, Buffy's nerves were fast fraying away.

Time to act. It was definitely time. Almost past time. "Okay, that's it," she announced abruptly. "Time's up, and I'm done with waiting. Trust me," she said to Connor, "we'll all get out of each other's way a whole lot faster if you just tell me the truth—"

"Buffy—" Dawn tried to intervene, too late.

"Trust you?!" Any grudging understanding that had shown on Connor's face quickly vanished. "Listen," he burst out, and now he had his stake fully in hand as he backed away, "I don't know the first thing about you people, or what you're really doing here. You say you're slayers – or not," he amended with a brief glance toward Dawn and Andrew, "and you come here, and start asking questions and giving commands – I don't take orders from you! I don't even know who you are—"

"Count yourself lucky then, boy," a new voice chimed in, as a slim figure advanced upon them from the darkness of the ruined hotel. "Because I've been trying to forget her ever since I met her. But she just keeps coming back."

Though the voice was instantly recognizable, Buffy still didn't quite believe it until the woman stepped into the light.

"Harmony…?"

The vampire's sharp teeth twisted into a smile. "Hey, Buffy. Long time, no see."


	6. Chapter 6: Harm & Happenstance

Disclaimer: The characters of "Buffy the Vampire Slayer" and "Angel" belong to Joss Whedon and Mutant Enemy. The original characters are my fault. No copyright infringement intended, and as this is posted for free, and read for free, nobody is losing any money. Suing me won't make you any money either (haha! see my puny bank account!), so let's just not.

Author's Notes & Lame Excuses: Just wanted to say thanks for the reviews (especially you anon reviewers, since I can't thank you personally). :-) Concrit appreciated. Hope you enjoy!

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**Chapter 6: Harm & Happenstance  
**

Buffy was momentarily at a loss for words.

It was definitely Harmony who stood before her, blocking the entrance of the alleyway and stylishly turned out in the latest of fashions – not a bad dress, actually, but the shade of pink was a mistake, as it only accentuated her burn-victim appearance. Nearly all of the visible skin of her face and neck and arms was reddened and wrinkled and pockmarked by livid scars. Adding to that, the glowing yellow eyes and the sharply threatening teeth… For possibly the very first time in her vampire unlife, Harmony actually looked fearsome. If you didn't know better, anyway.

"Harmony… you've been sun-tanning? Gotta say, it's not a good look on you."

"Oh, ha ha, Buffy," Harmony sneered, her hands on her hips as her high-heeled foot tap-tapped her annoyance. "Ha-fricking-ha. Very funny. Nice to see you too. Aged a bit, though, haven't you. Did you decide to get those frown lines permanently engraved?"

Buffy frowned. Then tried not to.

"She's not alone," Connor murmured in an undertone, obviously setting aside his misgivings as he moved to take a defensive position alongside Buffy. "More vampires coming up on the sidelines."

"I see them." A little late, but she saw them only too well. They were scaling the fences in daunting numbers, and leaping down into the alleyway, their eyes glittering a telltale golden in the gloom. Must have been a vamp nest in one of the adjacent warehouses… or maybe they'd all just wandered over here while she'd been too busy arguing with Connor to notice.

Damn it. So stupid, to be boxed in and caught here like such an amateur. And by the likes of Harmony. That really rankled. She must be losing her edge – spending her time only on training slayers, and not nearly enough spent in the field. However, if Harmony was the leader here, then that meant the rest of the vamps were most likely fledglings, or stupid, or probably both – which substantially evened the odds.

She glanced over her shoulder, making sure Andrew and Dawn were safely behind her.

Andrew let out a smothered little gasp as she turned, his 'emergency' stake clutched in his white-knuckled grasp. "I've had training," he mumbled to himself in an encouraging mantra. "I can do this. I just have to visualize victory…" At least Dawn was stoically calm, holding her stake defensively before her.

Buffy threw them both the standard stay-back-and-let-me-handle-this look.

"So what – you've got minions again, Harmony, and that makes you brave enough to come after me?" Buffy asked loudly, hoping to hold Harmony's attention until an opening appeared.  
"What makes you think this'll turn out any better than it did last time?"

"Well, duh, Buffy. Because this isn't last time. And – gawd! – you're **so **conceited! Why do you always think everything is all about **you**?"

"Okay," Buffy said slowly, slightly taken aback, "if you weren't coming after me, then what are you doing here?"

"What do you think?!" she screeched, waving her arms in irritation. "I've got a score to settle with the Worst. Boss. Ever." Harmony paused, as if expecting some kind of reaction to that dramatic statement, then rolled her eyes. "Angel, you dimwits. I'm getting back at Angel."

Buffy tried to make sense of the last few sentences. "Boss…? Angel…? I don't get it. Is that some kind of vampire slang?"

"Actually, I think he really was her boss," Connor said. "When I was in his office, I saw her working there. She was Angel's secretary."

"Not even," Harmony disputed, with an annoyed huff. "I was his Executive Assistant. There's a big difference, you know."

"Oh. Sorry."

Harmony shrugged. "It's okay – it just bugs me sometimes. You wouldn't believe how many people get it mixed up."

Gaping in disbelief, Buffy finally recovered her voice. "You mean… you really worked for Angel?! He actually… hired you… for a real job…? My god," she breathed, swallowing hard as she tried not to laugh out loud. "He really was evil… or crazy, anyway."

"Oh, don't even start trying to act all superior – it's not like anyone would ever actually hire **you **for a real job."

"I was a guidance counsellor," Buffy pointed out.

"At Sunnydale High? No wonder the student suicide rate tripled."

"That **so **wasn't my faul—" Buffy paused. Was she actually arguing with Harmony? That was just all kinds of disturbing. "So, anyway – Angel gave you a job… and now you want revenge." Buffy shrugged. "I don't get it."

"Yeah, there's a lot of things you don't get, Buffy. I worked my butt off for that self-righteous, soul-having bastard!" Harmony fumed. "Letters and memos and otters blood and conference calls – all of that stuff! – but did he care? No. There's only one thing he cares about, and he thinks it makes him so great and special – his precious little soul – thinks it makes him better than everybody. Better than me. And then he can go and do something awful like… like **this**!!!" She drew her hands gingerly over her ruined face as if it pained her on many levels. "What kind of person would do something so mean? He told me he was writing me a letter of reference," she wailed. "So that I could get another job. And then, when I opened the envelope…"

"The reference was just a little too glowing?" Buffy guessed, recalling some of Willow's ball-of-sunlight spells, and unable to keep the smirk out of her voice.

Harmony's baleful eyes settled upon her. "Yeah, you know what, Buffy? Shut your ugly little mouth. You're only alive right now because I want you to be, got it? I overheard you and your bratty little pukey-green kid sister – which is a very weird colour choice, by the way, and don't think I didn't notice that – but anyway, the important thing is, the two of you seem to have figured out some way to get to Angel, and now you're going to—" Her somewhat rambling, vaguely menacing speech came to an abrupt halt, a sudden flicker in her demon-gold eyes as if she'd only just realized something. Her mouth dropped open. "And Spike," she shrilled at a much higher pitch. "That's it, isn't it?! I don't believe it! You're **so **evil!"

Buffy blinked with surprise. "Excuse me?" Harmony, all vamped out and soulless and demony, was calling **her **evil?

"All that time, and he finally worked his way out of your greedy, grasping clutches and now… now I'll bet you think you can get him to come crawling back after you the way he always does, you… you… insatiable vampire layer!"

Buffy wasn't sure which offended her more – the atrocious pun, or the way that some of Harmony's 'minions' pricked up with prurient interest at that comment. She even caught Connor giving her a curious sideways glance, and glowered at him until he looked away.

"What's the matter with you, anyway?" Harmony screeched, obviously way caught up in her rant, flinging her arms around in fuming disbelief as she went on and on. "I mean, vampires and slayers – can you get more totally wrong for each other? And why can't either one of you figure it out already? It's not like it worked – not like it's ever going to work! Ugh – it's so sick and selfish, and it's… it's just wrong!" Maybe running out of breath, Harmony sputtered to a halt. Slowly, the look of utter loathing on her face changed. "But did you notice, he didn't come after you this time, did he?" Harmony said, her voice soaring up into outright gloating. "Not this time. You wonder about that? Well, let me tell you a thing or two, Buffy, he learned from his mistakes. Oh yeah, believe it. No more moping around after you. My Spikey came back a changed man; he was **so **over you, and moving on to bigger and better things—"

Not only was Harmony's blathering getting a little too pointed for Buffy's liking, it was also too much to expect anyone to sit through yet another speech. Buffy decided to make her move. "Harmony," she interrupted. And then had to raise her voice to a near shout to be heard, "Harmony!"

"Uh, rude!" Harmony sang under her breath, and with a heavy sigh of exasperation, demanded, "What? What now?"

Having noted that some of the vamps – definitely fledglings, she decided – had unwittingly moved into range, Buffy nudged Connor beside her. He nodded, almost imperceptibly. "Just wanted to say that it's been really great catching up with you, Harmony," Buffy said, using her sweetest smile while unobtrusively shifting into a fighting stance. "I'd say we should do it again sometime, but I think it's way past time for you to go. Permanently."

Predictably, Harmony was a bit slow on the uptake. "What are you talking about? **I'm **not going anywhere; **you're **the one who—"

With a step forward and a sweep of her sword, the nearest vamp was already screaming his way into dust as Buffy lopped off his head. Beside her, Connor also struck out with deadly force, knocking another vampire to the ground and staking it with surprising efficiency. As she'd suspected, there was more to him than met the eye.

Pausing only briefly, Buffy spared a glance behind her – Dawn and Andrew were working together, managing to hold their own defensively.

"Oh! Get them! Stop them!" Harmony was ineffectually shouting out orders, even as she was turning on her heel in a frilly whirl of pink, and starting to move back from the fray, "You crappy minions – you're supposed to be tough! Fight harder, or I'll tell on you— Oh!" She shrieked as Buffy's sword swung dangerously close, decapitating one of the fledglings she'd been yelling at.

"You had to hit up rent-a-vamp to get your little posse here? That's really kind of… pathetic."

"Kill her, you morons!" Harmony screamed, shoving random vamps between her and Buffy, while backing away as quickly as she could. "Kill her! But get me the other one – I want that little green one!"

A few of the more foolhardy vampires tried to comply. Buffy immediately blocked their path, backed up by Connor. "Over my dead body," Buffy growled.

Harmony giggled, all sharp teeth and sparkling eyes. "Know what, Buffy? I'm really okay with that."

Furious, Buffy lunged towards Harmony, but too many of her low-rent 'minions' were getting underfoot and in the way, effectively blocking her path with little more than their bared fangs and sheer numbers. Well, if that was the way they wanted it, she could cut those numbers easily enough.

Without hesitating, Buffy threw herself into the fight, the long reach of her sword taking out several fledgling vampires at once. This was what she was made for. These moments. Spin, parry, thrust, kick, decapitate. She'd done it a thousand times before – had tried to distil this lethal performance into the lessons that she now taught to young slayers – and yet, the real thing was different. It always was. And somehow, it never quite lost its appeal.

Though the vampires outnumbered them, too many were raw and inexperienced; and, without leadership, as the dust began to fly around them, most of them simply turned and tried to run away. Those that didn't found themselves dusting on the fatal end of a stake, or the keen edge of the sword.

But it was close-quarter fighting, and Buffy couldn't look everywhere at once. From behind her, there was a high-pitched shriek from Dawn as one of the few remaining vampires leapt past their defenses and seized her. Buffy spun around, fighting her way back to defend her sister – "Dawn!" – even as it was leaning in to bite her, and Buffy was still too far away, wasn't going to be able to get there in time…

Connor was much closer, and the snarling vampire scattered into dust as he staked it.

"Thanks," Dawn coughed, waving her hands to dispel the dust. "Oh gross. I hate it," she sneezed, "when they get up your nose."

"Guys," Andrew wheezed uncertainly in the abrupt hush, still pivoting back and forth with a spastic twitching of the stake in his hand, "I think that's the last of them. They're gone. I think we did it! We defeated The Vampire Horde."

"Gone? All of them?" Buffy whirled around. "They can't be. What about Harmony? I didn't kill Harmony yet. Where did she go?"

"Back there, I guess." Andrew pointed imprecisely back towards the dark shape of the hotel. "I… was actually kind of busy defending my life, and all that. I didn't really see."

"She **so **needs to be dusted—" Buffy started after her, but Connor stepped in front of her.

"Are you crazy?! Well… maybe you are, I can see that," he amended, "but still – that place is a mess, and the basement is riddled with tunnels," he warned. "I've seen it. Take my word for it: if she's gone down there, you're not going to have any way of knowing which direction she went. Or how many more of them might be down there, waiting for us to do something that stupid."

Buffy shook her head. Too many times already, Harmony had escaped dusting. Like a cockroach, scuttling away again and again, only to eventually reappear and cause more trouble. And now, she knew – or at least suspected – something about Dawn. That put her way over the 'annoyance' category and well into the 'dangerous.' It was definitely past time to put an end to her. "I know how to handle vamps," Buffy said with certainty.

"But – Buffy… That's not what you came here for," Dawn reminded her. "Is it?"

"She saw you, Dawn! You heard what she said! I can't just let her go – I have to kill her!" And yet, she couldn't just run off and leave Dawn and Andrew undefended either… and there was also the portal, still plaguing her with the inexplicable sense of time running out…

"I'll be okay. See? I have my own sharp stake to protect me. And there's Andrew and Connor," Dawn said reassuringly.

Connor seemed puzzled by Buffy's agitation, and was peering at Dawn in an almost equal level of confusion. "She's just one vamp," he reminded Buffy, "and not all that smart from what I could tell. Hunt her down and take her out on your terms – it doesn't make any sense to go blindly running after her right now, when she's got the advantage. Besides," he added, "she's not likely to get far if she sticks her head above ground. After all, you're not the only slayer in town—"

That caught her attention. "I'm not?"

"No." He seemed a little taken aback by the vehemence of her question. "There was a group of them downtown, hanging around the old Wolfram & Hart site."

"And how would **you **know they were slayers?" Andrew quizzed, ever so slightly petulant as if he were jealous with that knowledge.

"Well, let's see: It's hard to say exactly what it was that tipped me off, but it might have been when the vampires that I'd been tailing were suddenly jumped on and dusted by three girls," Connor retorted. "I mean, come on – a bunch of teenage girls standing around with stakes? What else would they be?"

"Could have been well-prepared girl scouts," Andrew muttered peevishly.

Connor ignored that. "That's actually why I headed back out here. Seemed like nothing was likely to happen there with that many slayers around." He paused, noticing the wordless glance that passed between Dawn and Buffy. "So… these other slayers… I'm guessing you aren't with them, are you?"

"I don't know," Buffy replied honestly. "That depends."

"On what?"

"It's a long story."

"Buffy," Dawn said gently. "Have you decided what you want to do?"

Yes. No. Buffy glanced once again at Connor. "What are you doing here, really?" Asking the question this time, not demanding. After all, even though he'd got dragged into her fight, he'd still fought alongside her – and had saved Dawn – she owed him at least that much respect.

Connor paused, and Buffy could sense him weighing his options. Not surprising since they'd known each other for all of twenty minutes, and she knew that it was asking a lot to be expecting trust at this point.

"I wasn't here during the battle," he said at last, shaking his head as he spoke. "I don't know why I'm telling you this – I don't know why you care so much – but if you're looking for information, I don't have much. Yes, I was at Wolfram & Hart that night, but Angel wouldn't let me stay. He told me to get out." He was frowning at his feet, and there was still the niggling sense of something left unsaid. "So, anyway, I left. Went home. When I came back the next day, everything was destroyed, and everyone was gone. I only found my way to this place afterward… I know it sounds weird, but, somehow, I can tell that this is where it ended. In the alley, here. I keep coming back here, because…" He shrugged. "I don't know. I keep expecting something to happen. Nothing ever has, though."

"Keep your eyes open," Buffy said dryly. "It might yet."

His eyebrow quirked upward in a wary question.

"There's something I have to do," she started to explain, "and I need to do it myself. But I don't want to just leave them here – Dawn and Andrew. Can I trust you?"

Connor had already told her once that he wasn't going to take orders from her, but this time he seemed to understand what and why she was asking. Something flickered in his gaze – an intensity that seemed almost familiar – and she realized she knew the answer before he spoke it aloud. "Don't worry; I'll get them out of here safely," he promised, nodding towards Dawn and Andrew, and she believed him. "I won't let anyone hurt them."

Andrew chose that moment to lurch and leap about like a crazed leprechaun. "Aaiiieeee!!!" he wailed, grabbing at his neck and careening headlong down the alleyway away from them. "Witchcraft! The Coven! They've found us – they see us—!"

Only then did Buffy realize that the stones at the center of both their amulets were now glowing from within with a bright yellow flame. "Dawn—!"

The crystal at the center of Buffy's necklace imploded, shattering into a puff of golden dust. "Too late," Dawn murmured speculatively. "But I wonder if…?" Reaching out, she touched her finger to the stone within her own amulet, and the burning yellow light faltered, changing to a glistening green shade as it subsided. Dawn grinned happily. "Hey, I think that worked."

"How did you—?"

"Like riding a bike, I guess," Dawn replied. "You never really forget, right?" Removing the now green-stoned amulet, she placed it carefully around Buffy's neck. "Keep it with you – hopefully I can use it to find you later. When you're ready to come back. So, are you ready to go?"

"What just happened? And what's wrong with him?" Connor asked, looking after Andrew. "What's going on?"

Buffy's head was whirling as she tried to decide what to focus on. The now-green stone ensconced in her amulet; Andrew running in circles at the end of the alleyway, stomping on his amulet; Connor's rapid-fire questions; and the all-important question that Dawn was asking her…

"Long story," Dawn threw back over her shoulder at Connor, taking Buffy's hand and pulling her down the alleyway as they retraced their steps to the portal. "Tell you later."

"Is that going to be the answer to every question I ask?" He sounded annoyed.

Dawn smirked. "It'll depend on what you ask me. Buffy—" Dawn turned her attention back to her, and her eyes were already faintly tinged with an otherworldly green. "—we've only got a few minutes. The Coven's probably already got slayers on the way – but I'm betting they don't realize I can open the portal. We can stay here and wait for them, try to talk it out. Or we can go, come back later, and try another time. Or we can do this right now. It's up to you. Tell me what you want to do."

Buffy touched Dawn's face. She knew the answer she wanted to give, but a part of herself was afraid to give it. The part of her that belonged to Dawn. "I… Dawn, how can I be sure? Glory," she whispered. "Glory needed your blood to open—"

"Glory was an idiot," Dawn retorted. "Evil, yes; genius, no. I didn't know what I was then," she explained. "Everything was too new… and Glory probably figured that the quickest and easiest way to make it work was to pull it all apart. Maybe it was, then. But I'm aware, now. I can't explain how, but I know. I'm starting to feel what I really am, what I'm capable of. And I can do this. If you want me to, I can do this for you."

"Then… yes…" _Yes, I want to go. Yes, I want a second chance._ "But only if you're sure—" she began, but her own voice was so uncertain.

"Don't be stupid, Buffy," Dawn said, and with a flicker of movement she was suddenly engulfed by iridescent green flame. Beside her, Connor gave a startled cry, stumbling backwards in wide-eyed astonishment. "After all, this is what we came here to do." She seemed to concentrate for a moment, and a startling blue-white beacon opened up from the ground, illuminating the surrounding area with a brilliance that was brighter than daylight. A wall of wind whipped around them, and Dawn laughed exultantly. "You see? I told you I could open it!"

Buffy stared into the dazzling column of light, an undeniable note of apprehension resounding inside of her. "Nothing can get out…?" she shouted in a terribly belated question, watching it spill up into the night sky. "They were afraid – Willow said they couldn't risk opening it—"

"I'm not a witch, I'm a Key!" Dawn shouted back. "I know what I'm doing! I've only unlocked the way through to the other side – nothing can come back this way. Now, go on. The door's way heavier than it looks!"

His mouth agape, Connor stood nearby, also caught up with them in the eye of the storm, his face reflecting ever-changing moments of alarm, uncertainty and wonderment. Seeming to feel Buffy's imploring gaze fixed upon him, he turned to meet her eyes. "I'll get her to safety. I'll look after her," Connor said, shouting to be heard over the tumult, "I promise."

"Hey, Buffy," Dawn called out, "Tell Spike I said 'hi.' Now, get your butt in gear. And be careful. Don't do anything I wouldn't do."

Buffy almost laughed at that. "I'll be back… as soon as I can," she said, realizing that she really had no idea when that would be.

Dawn was unfazed. "I'll be waiting," she promised.

Taking a deep breath, Buffy took a step forward into the blinding light…


	7. Chapter 7: Into the Fire

Disclaimer: The characters of "Buffy the Vampire Slayer" and "Angel" belong to Joss Whedon and Mutant Enemy. The original characters are my fault. No copyright infringement intended, and as this is posted for free, and read for free, nobody is losing any money. Suing me won't make you any money either (haha! see my puny bank account!), so let's just not.

Author's Notes & Lame Excuses: Where have I been? I went on vacation (yay!), and now that I'm back, I'm running behind on everything (boo!). Same old, same old. :-) As always, concrit appreciated & I hope you enjoy!

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**Chapter 7 : Into the Fire**

…a step forward into the blinding light…

…for a moment, it dragged her down, enveloped her, tearing along in a roiling tidal current…

…and then a flash of total disorientation – that felt alarmingly like freefall – which was more than enough to knock her flat onto her face. "Oof!" At least the ground was soft.

Lifting her head, she opened her eyes to see a vast unremarkable landscape stretching out before her. Sand, sand, rock, sand, rock, more sand – all of it glaring white beneath a bright day-lit sky, a jarring change from the night-darkened alleyway she had just stepped out of a moment before.

"Okay," Buffy opined quietly to herself, brushing herself off and slowly getting to her feet, "so not what I was expecting." Of course, if anyone else had been there and had thought to ask just exactly what she had been expecting, she'd be hard pressed to provide a detailed answer. Because, honestly, she hadn't put that much thought into the particulars. It was just a quick step through a mystical door, into – what?

Into open air, which dropped her unceremoniously into the middle of a desert, apparently.

Sometimes, Buffy mused, strategic thinking was not her strong suit. But, on the other hand – she fished in her jacket pocket, triumphantly pulling out a pair of sunglasses – at least she had some useful accessories. There – that made the glare a little more manageable. She didn't waste any time in yanking off the jacket she'd been wearing. Much better.

Daring a glance upward, Buffy started a little at the bedazzling-bright pinpoint of blue-white in the sky. Not the sun – at least, not the sun she was used to. She peered at it for a moment, then shook off her fascination, not entirely certain why she was so surprised. Chances were that demonic portals weren't exactly going to transport you to an only faintly exotic vacation hotspot. All things considered, she was lucky the landscape was as familiar to her as it was.

And that the air was breathable. She mentally added yet another item to the list of 'things Buffy should look for before leaping.'

Still, surveying the bleak surroundings, and already feeling the heat beating down on her, she was mildly concerned that she wasn't carrying any water with her. Of course, when she'd started prowling around the Hyperion back on the other side of the universe, it had been evening, and it hadn't seemed like a mistake to leave the half-empty bottle of Evian water sitting in the car.

Oh well. Too late now.

She picked up her sword from where it had fallen, letting the sand slide off it. Best to get moving – she wasn't likely to find anything just standing here. Eyeing the sloping hills that stretched upward all around her, Buffy headed up the side of the highest one, hoping for a vantage point that would give her a decent view of the surrounding area. The sand was slippery beneath her feet, impeding her progress, and by the time she'd reached the peak, she was dismayed to find that the only view it provided was of another range of hills ahead of her.

A shudder of foreboding within her that she tried to ignore. No need to panic – obviously, Dawn must have dropped her a little off the mark. If she walked just a little further, then surely she'd find something to get her back on track. Not hard to do. After all, she was a California girl – sun and heat and beaches – that was what she was made for. No problem.

However, the distances seemed to drag on a little further than she'd estimated, and the hill was higher than it appeared at first glance. Dragging her arm across her already sweaty forehead as she continued walking, Buffy wished – just a little bit – that it wasn't quite so hot.

She crested the hill, only to see the same featureless scene stretching out before her. "Okay," she murmured, the dry air already starting to catch in her throat. "This is not so good." Craning her neck back as she looked back and forth, Buffy began to wonder if she'd chosen the wrong direction. Perhaps if she headed back and— No, that didn't make sense. She'd just end up walking in circles if she started second-guessing herself.

What she needed was to find a point of reference. Of course she hadn't seen one yet – not a single thing was large enough not to be buried by the shifting sand – which meant she had to keep going until she did. And she was definitely not wearing the proper footwear for a Lawrence-of-Arabia-type hike. Her heels were digging into the soft sand, doing nothing for her balance, and hindering her already slow progress, but the sand was scorching hot and going barefoot was not an option.

Though she'd long ago tied her jacket around her waist, already her tank top was soaked with sweat, and her stylish slacks were unbearably hot. While the sunglasses damped down some of the glare, it didn't keep the bright light from boiling in around the edges of the frames. Fervently, she wished for an unfashionably large floppy hat. And she would absolutely kill for a drink of water.

The hilt of the sword she was holding was slick and slippery between her palms, but without a proper sheath for it, she had no choice but to carry it.

This was ridiculous. She'd made a mistake. Dawn had made a mistake. There was nothing here, nothing here at all – somewhere, there must have been some kind of mystical wrong turn or something. Maybe this was an entirely wrong dimension.

"Hello?" she called out, as loud as she could, her voice fretting against her dry throat. "Anybody here? Anywhere?" Turning around in all directions, looking for a hint, a clue, any kind of sign. "Helloooo!?!" And then, plaintively, "Dawn…?" She shook the little amulet about her neck. The stone was a cool limpid green, but it did not glow at all. Should it? She wasn't sure. "Hello…? Is this working?"

Ridiculous. Mistake. And so hot, and tired. Go on or go back? Was she even certain she knew which way was back?

In despair, Buffy let herself tumble down to sit on the ground, leaning forward with her head between her knees and her hands behind her head, as if she were an airline passenger waiting for her plane to come crashing down. Eyes wide open, she stared at the sand beneath her; it winked malevolently back up at her like gritty pieces of white-hot glass. She tried to calm her ragged breathing, tried to still her shaking limbs. Damn it. Damn it. What was she going to do now?

Why had she left her water bottle in the car?

An audible moan of distress sounded within her, and she clapped her hands over her lips. "Calm down," she whispered, her breath a hot wind on her heated skin. "Calm down. Just rest a moment. Figure this out. Find a way."

Two choices. She could continue to search for Spike, or Angel, or whoever else who might have come through the portal. Sooner or later, she'd have to come across someone or something here.

Maybe.

Or, she could try to retrace her steps – but she'd have to hurry, before the shifting sands completely melted all trace of her passage – and continue to try to contact Dawn, who could hopefully bring her safely back home. Assuming Dawn could hear her calling at all.

Or, she realized, she could sit here and wait to see what that was.

Not far away from her, the air was bubbling. At first Buffy thought she was imagining it – that the heat and her panic were getting the best of her – but the effect grew more distinct as the moments passed. A gauzy haze was forming in midair, a ghostly shimmer of movement stirring within it as she watched. "Dawn…?" she breathed hopefully, getting to her feet.

Then, a crackle like electricity, the sound of something being torn open, and a blistering shimmer of light that forced her to briefly close her eyes. A tear opened in the air before her, a jagged wound – a doorway. For an insane moment, she thought it might be the same as the door in the sky that had brought her here, and wanted to leap through it – imagined herself being pulled back upwards to the cool dark alleyway she'd left such a short time ago – but she held back. There was a fundamentally different feel to this disturbance. Not the benign energy that was a door opening, but something far more violent. On some level, she knew that it wasn't Dawn.

Three strange creatures stepped out of the tear.

All three of them were large and burly, carrying weapons and wearing helmets and armour with sharp points and plating. Beneath the armour, she could see dark gray skin, pale eyes, and the hard line of a flat, unfriendly mouth. She caught a glimpse of a long whiplike tail behind them.

Buffy was certain she'd never seen this kind of demon before, but was equally certain she didn't need Giles here to be able to tell that they weren't the welcoming type.

They barked unintelligible sounds at her, and she closed her fingers more firmly about her sword. "I don't speak demon," she said, just because some kind of response seemed expected and it felt better than standing there saying nothing.

Two of the three moved as if to flank her, while the one in the center continued to advance slowly toward her. This one was the leader, she supposed; the other two seemed to be taking their cues from him. Cautiously, but very deliberately, she backed away in response, refusing to let them so easily surround her.

They briefly continued to converse with each other in their own language, before the leader finally decided, "Human," the first utterance she understood. Its head swivelled back toward her, its colourless eyes glittering. The tone was guttural, but distinctly intelligible. "How do you come to be here, human?"

Buffy blinked with surprise at the articulate question. "I… opened a door."

"Not within your power," it dismissed, tossing its head with a disdainful snort. She noted that its large hinged jaw was filled with a worrisome number of disturbingly needle-like teeth. "You should not be here. This realm is now under **our** control. Your stench offends me. You are abomination."

His sword came up and swung out towards her in a quick and deadly arc. Barely having time to lift her own sword to parry, she needed all of her Slayer speed and strength to counter that blow, and even then, the force of it sent shockwaves up her arms. But that was nothing compared to the obvious astonishment of the demon, who paused in surprise to find her still alive. Buffy didn't give him time to regret having underestimated her. Swiftly counterattacking, her sword sliced deep into the demon's neck, stopping only as the blade caught on bone or armour. The demon gave a hideous cry. With a firm wrench, she pulled her sword free, a dark oily gore dripping from her sword as the demon toppled at her feet.

The other two creatures stared at her in a moment of frozen horror, then their own weapons were drawn and upraised and they were yowling a feral battle cry. Or a call for reinforcements, she realized, as another gaping tear split the air only a few moments later.

The demon at her feet, not quite dead yet, had both his hands clamped against his hemorrhaging neck – unexpectedly, his tail lashed out to snare her ankle.

Buffy slashed viciously at the tail, having to awkwardly kick another attacker away as she freed herself. Then the other demon was almost on top of her. Diving beneath his wide swordstroke, she turned and ran. She knew the attempt to flee was probably useless – not only was she hampered by the heat and probably-fatally-inappropriate-footwear, but it was also – she dared a glance back over her shoulder, unable to accurately gauge the number of figures now moving behind her – many against one. Seven or eight… and more still spilling from the air. Not to mention the fact that she was stranded in the middle of a wasteland, with nowhere to go, nowhere to hide.

The distinctive sound of another portal opening somewhere. Good god, how many of them were going to come after her?! It wasn't fair, she thought plaintively, her lungs burning as she scrambled up the long slope of another sand dune, trying to find some defensible position before she had to turn and fight.

That moment came sooner than she'd expected, with the swipe of a sword against her back, tearing through her tank top and her skin. Bad enough to hurt a lot, but she was still moving, and all her limbs still worked, so it could have been far worse. Dropping to her knees, she rolled to the side to change direction, pivoting about to face her attackers as she regained her feet with her sword held ready before her. Three of them coming directly at her. But only three. Didn't seem right – she'd counted more than that only a moment ago. But then, behind them, she caught a brief glimpse of the rest of the demons, not pursuing her, but now engaged in some separate conflict.

However, her opponents didn't give her time to assess the situation. Immediately pressing their advantage, they forced her to continually retreat lest she be surrounded, and she was expending all her energy in fending them off, leaving her little opportunity to retaliate. And her sword, she realized belatedly, simply wasn't meant to handle this level of damage, wasn't anywhere near the same calibre as the weapons it was being tested against. The metal blade seemed to quiver under each attack, like an injury vibrating up her arms and shocking all her other injuries.

One thing was for sure: she couldn't keep this up for long. She couldn't. "Dawn," she breathed desperately. "Dammit, Dawn—!" But no friendly green portal appeared to whisk her home.

The sharp edge of a sword slipped passed her guard; she sidestepped, but still it lanced her thigh, and she couldn't restrain the shriek of pain it pulled from her. Deep cut. More blood than she cared to see. Not good. For a moment, she floundered on uncertain footing, then steadied herself through sheer force of will.

"Buffy…?" Her name, distantly spoken as a baffled disbelieving question. So quietly voiced that she barely heard it over the din of battle, and for a moment she fully believed that she'd imagined it.

And then another figure burst into the fray, literally bowling her over as he flung himself headlong against her assailants. Buffy scrabbled frantically to recover her dropped sword, once again rolling out of the way and trying to regain her feet, but her injured leg didn't want to cooperate, and she was much slower than she should have been.

Fortunately, the interference had brought her a moment's respite as she was temporarily overlooked in the conflict. Gritting her teeth against the pain in her thigh, she forced herself somewhat upright, then stiffened with shock.

Spike.

It was Spike.

He now stood between her and the demon soldiers – and there were more of them now, one after the other, following him up the slope to join in the fight – facing away from her and standing combat-ready in an aggressive stance. Garbed in unfamiliar black body armour with metal spikes protruding from his forearms, he was deftly wielding a long metal staff as a weapon. But it was the same familiar shock of bright blond hair, the same belligerent stance she'd seen him take in so many battles, that cocksure self-assurance even in the face of grim odds. A perfunctory glance back at her, and she caught a glimpse of his face: sharp-toothed, yellow-eyed and scrunched up in full vampire mode.

Spike. Not dead. Vampire. Standing in full sunlight. And not falling into dust.

Was she delirious?

Buffy broke free of her paralysis as she realized that Spike had let the demon soldiers surround him, and was now visibly struggling to keep them at bay. There were eight or more of them now, and Buffy was all but ignored as the demons concentrated on the vampire. "Illyria!" he roared, bashing the metal pole against one of the demon's helmeted skulls – it served only to slow the creature down, but another sturdy blow to the ribs was enough to send it tumbling to the ground. Even so, there were too many opponents, and Spike was giving too much ground; they'd overtake him in another moment if she didn't do something.

Though her sword arm was now considerably weakened, and her balance was uneven, Buffy lurched forward and brought her weapon down upon an unprotected patch of limb on the demon standing closest to her. Her sword sliced deep, but not deep enough. With a furious yowl, the creature deftly switched its weapon to the other hand, and turned upon her in a ferocious assault, driving her to her knees way too easily.

Spike shifted his focus in mid-movement, awkwardly repositioning to lash out at her attacker and knock it away from her, leaving his right side unprotected as he did so. The other demons did not miss the lapse. Spike doubled over with an agonized howl as a sword plunged through his abdomen. He fell back to the ground, the sand colouring red beneath him, and one of the demons followed him down, leaning over him with its wide mouth open, full of teeth.

Spike flung up an arm to protect his face and neck, and the demon's jaws clamped down overtop the limb. Both of them screamed, and the demon recoiled violently, having bitten down on the jagged metal barbs that plated the vampire's arms. An awful mixture of red and gray blood splattered outward as they struggled.

It was all a blur. Blood and screaming and thrashing limbs. Buffy wasn't aware of anything else. She couldn't keep track of it any more, didn't feel her own injuries, her own exhaustion – all she was doing now was wildly hacking and slashing with her remaining strength, a desperate wail rising from her own throat as she tried to get to Spike, to somehow defend him, and yet she still couldn't reach him—

A woman appeared.

Though seemingly human, if the devastating force of her attacks were any indication, she was unquestionably more than human. Girlishly slim, she wore a peculiar, carapaced body armour, and carried no visible weaponry; her long bluish hair fanned outward as she spun round and round to face multiple foes, each one falling away from her – sometimes in pieces – as she struck. Buffy was still swinging her sword when the last of her opponents fell beneath the stranger's hands. With all the demons dispatched or hastily retreating, she whirled upon Buffy, piercing white-blue eyes blazing, then paused.

Though Buffy's hands trembled, she did not lower her sword. Should she say something? Attack? Defend? Without a clue as to what she should do next, she waited.

Dropping from her combative stance after a moment's consideration, the other woman stepped backward, then turned wordlessly upon her heel. Striding over to the now unconscious Spike, she lifted the body of a demon off of him and tossed it aside.

Somehow still alive, the fallen creature growled up at her in a guttural, garbled language. If any of those noises were words, the woman gave no hint of understanding them. Her attention fixed on Spike, she carefully removed the sword from his side, and, turning in an almost casual movement, she stabbed the blade violently down into the helmeted face of the wounded demon. Only a fragment of a cry sounded, followed by an awful crunching noise and a fountain of blue-gray liquid that spouted briefly upward.

Wincing, Buffy averted her eyes from the twitching creature, and finally shook off her stunned paralysis. Stumbling forward, Buffy was half-walking and half-falling as she tried to reach Spike.

The blue-haired woman deliberately blocked her path – stepping directly in front of her, she effortlessly gathered the fallen vampire up into her arms, as if he weighed no more than a child, and she began to walk away.

"Wait," Buffy pleaded, her voice little more than a fitful wheezing gasp, the heat and her injuries making her slow. Slow and clumsy. This wasn't her. Everything was wrong – nothing was happening the way she expected, and she couldn't seem to find a way to fix it. "Spike—!" But the vampire was beyond hearing, and the woman carrying him did not stop. "Oh god, wait…" _Don't leave – don't go – don't take – Spike – wait for me—_

Finally pausing and turning to regard Buffy with a blank expression that felt uncomfortably like a challenge, the strange woman inclined her head, and another portal opened before her. "I will permit you to accompany us. Come, if you will." Carrying Spike with her, she stepped into the portal and disappeared.

Dazed to the point that she wondered if she were dreaming – nightmare? – she didn't know whether to hope for that or not – Buffy followed, stepping without hesitation into the roiling air, the portal winking shut behind her.


	8. Chapter 8: Demons & Demigods

Disclaimer: Do I need to disclaim each chapter? The characters of "Buffy the Vampire Slayer" and "Angel" belong to Joss Whedon and Mutant Enemy. No copyright infringement intended. Posted for free - read for free - nobody is losing any money - so, yay!

Author's Notes & Lame Excuses: The large chunk of italicized text at the beginning of this chapter denotes a flashback. Also, just a reminder that when I started writing this story, Joss hadn't released his Buffy S8 comics, so this follows canon up to Buffy S7 and Angel S5, and then goes on its own merry way. (Translation: In this fic, Buffy really was dating the Immortal.)

* * *

**Chapter 8 : Demons & Demigods**

_"Bellissima," he spoke appreciatively, gently catching her hand and pressing his lips against it in a quaintly old-world romantic gesture that she'd only ever seen in movies. His voice was smoothly seductive, as he continued in English, "You are a woman of rare beauty."_

_The sun was low in the sky, the day's heat fading into a blissful warmth, and she'd been sitting at the small streetside café, enjoying the mix of voices in the piazza. Many people, many languages, all blending into a pleasant hum around her. Today, she had walked and walked and walked, through winding stone streets that were at least a thousand years, or more, older than her. She liked the feel of it, the sense of permanence and the history all around her. So different from the cities where she'd lived, the places she'd left behind._

_A week from now, Dawn would be joining her – her younger sister giddy and, from the sounds of her voice when Buffy had last spoken to her over the phone, almost literally bouncing with excitement at the thought of being in Rome. She'd missed Dawn. Missed being with her, laughing with her, sharing with her. Buffy had been alone now for more than two months – so much of that time spent thinking, grieving, and counting her regrets. But none of her reflections changed anything; she needed to start to get past that, and she was looking forward to company._

_So it was not completely disagreeable to find this handsome man now standing before her, professing admiration for her 'rare beauty.' Dark-haired and dark-eyed, impeccably groomed and exceptionally well attired, he was very attractive. And probably very well aware of that fact. In Buffy's limited experience so far, she'd found Italian men were aggressively charming, and seemed able to spot a tourist from a great distance._

_Maybe, she mused, it was the backpack and sturdy traveling boots that gave her away. The sooner she found an apartment, the better._

_"I don't believe we've met," she replied dryly._

_"Much as it pains me to contradict you, I believe we have met. Just a moment or two ago on this very spot. You were sitting there, and I was standing here, much as we are this very instant. And may I say that you are as beautiful now as when I first met you."_

_He flashed her a brilliant smile, and despite her intentions to not encourage him, she found herself instinctively returning it. She laughed aloud, and enjoyed the sound of it. It had been a long time since she laughed. "My god, you're charming. Is it something that comes naturally, or have you had to work at it?"_

_He laughed in return, as if heartily delighted by the teasing question. "Many many years of practice, my dear. Instead of growing older and wiser, I simply chose to grow more charming. Time enough another day to strive for the wisdom of age; while we still are young, we must seize the moments that are uniquely ours."_

_"Are we having a moment, you and me?"_

_"Unquestionably. May I join you?"_

_"For this moment, yes." She nodded agreement at the unoccupied chair next to her, which he eagerly claimed. Buffy was not above noticing the covertly envious looks cast her way by some of the local women._

_His dark eyes were piercing, very intently gazing into hers. "What brings you to Rome?"_

_"Well... they say 'all roads lead to Rome,' don't they?" Quippy-Buffy just wasn't what she used to be. "No special reason. I'm just another sightseer, backpacking through Europe. I was in Austria, and then I thought I'd like to see Italy. And when I came to Italy, then I wanted to see Rome."_

_"And now that you have seen it, what do you think of my fair city?"_

_"Your city, is it?"_

_"I like to think so."_

_Smirking, Buffy made a show of glancing around. "I don't see your name on anything."_

_"And if I were to tell you that my name is 'Roman,' then would you believe me?" he asked loftily. "No? Well, it is for the best, then. As it so happens, that is not my name; therefore, my argument would be particularly weak."_

_She laughed again, realizing, "You haven't asked my name."_

_"You have not offered it. I would never ask a woman for anything that was not freely offered. Besides," he added, his eyes sparking flirtatiously, "you have not yet asked me __**my**__ name."_

_Buffy very pointedly chose not to ask, and he smiled._

_"Ask me for something," he said earnestly, "ask me for anything, and I will get it for you."_

_"What if I want you to go away and leave me alone?"_

_"Then I will leave, although broken-hearted and in despair. But surely you would not do such a heartless thing. A woman like you is not meant to be alone."_

_"You don't know anything about me," she countered._

_"No, not yet, but I am most persistently trying to learn."_

_In spite of herself, a smile tugged at her lips. "Anything?" Buffy repeated._

_"Anything you wish."_

_"I'd like to go dancing. Kick up my heels and forget everything else for a while and go dancing."_

_"Now __**that**__ I can accommodate. I can acquaint you with several of the most delightful nightspots Rome has to offer – music, dancing, fine wine and camaraderie." And then he paused. "Do you trust me?"_

_"Not even as far as I can throw you," Buffy replied, "although that's actually farther than you might think. But I'm quite capable of taking care of myself, and I want to go dancing."_

_He sprang to his feet, quickly pulling her chair back for her and offering her his arm. "Then dance we shall."_

_And in that instant, she thought of Spike. Do you want to dance, Slayer? Are we dancing yet? That's all we've ever done, you and I… dancing around the truth, dancing around their feelings, sunlight and flames and ashes dancing blindingly upward as she ran…_

_"Is there something wrong?"_

_The voice brought her back to the present. She looked up at the face of the man next to her, and it was the charismatic stranger she had just met. Suddenly realizing how tightly she was holding his arm, Buffy quickly loosened her grip before she broke something. He did not seem to notice. "No. I'm fine. Let's go."_

* * *

Buffy opened her eyes, not to the pleasantness of her sunlit windowed bedroom in Rome, but to shadowy, unfamiliar surroundings, with only a thin scratchy pallet beneath her to ease the hard surface of the floor. Not even remotely comfy. And it smelled like mould. Lifting her head, she could feel aches throughout her body as she moved, with a particularly sharp pain shooting through her leg, as if she'd been mauled by bears, or a mob of rampaging demons… 

What did it say about her life that the latter was the more likely option?

The fabric tied firmly over her wounded leg looked like a shredded remnant of her own jacket, now spotted and discoloured with blood. She could feel the bulky weight of another makeshift bandage wrapped around her back and shoulder. Careful not to pull anything as she slowly sat up, Buffy tried to draw the scattered pieces of her memory into a coherent whole. _Andrew… Dawn… LA… Key and portal… demons… Spike…_ But it was all still a bit disjointed, and not at all helped by the fact that her head was pounding with a relentless, dizzying ache.

The outlying edges of the room were obscured in shadow; her eyes could make out only the austere stretch of space, and she noticed the fusty tang of the air, as if this were a place very old and long abandoned. Looking at her own shadow casting long across the floor, she realized that the only light in this place must be coming from somewhere behind her, and she turned around.

Buffy gave a yelp of alarm as she found the imposing warrior woman hovering almost overtop her. Like a statue placed improbably close, the woman stood without moving, her unnerving eyes boring down into Buffy's with unblinking scrutiny.

And then, wordlessly, she lifted her arm, holding out a water skein.

Awkwardly, Buffy seized the proffered container, not realizing until that moment how desperately thirsty she was. Though the water had an acrid, unpleasant taste to it – though it had been handed to her by a stranger whom she had no way of knowing whether or not she could trust, Buffy gulped at the water anyway. Her parched throat ached as she drank, and she had to force herself to stop, taking a deep rattling breath to steady herself.

Not feeling well. Not feeling well at all.

Catching her breath, she looked around again. The only light in the room was coming from a small, peculiar tumbling of stones, piled up near the other woman's feet. They looked a bit like oversized, ill-shapen pearls, glowing with an indistinct pale light that cast everything in an ashen shadow.

More disconcerted by the strange surroundings than she cared to admit, Buffy looked back up at the vaguely threatening woman still standing over her. "Who are you?" she blurted impulsively, then discarded that question for a more important one. "Spike. Where's Spike?"

Wordlessly, the strange woman half-turned, inclining her head.

Following her pointed gaze, Buffy saw him lying motionless atop a tidy pile of blankets on the floor on the other side of the room from her. Without thinking, she was on her feet and boldly pushing past the other woman; her injured leg stiff and ungainly, Buffy dropped to her knees next to him in a graceless sprawl. "Spike…?"

The sight of him was peculiarly familiar and unfamiliar to her in the same moment. It was him. Not quite as she remembered, but it was him.

Clad only in makeshift bandages about his waist and his arm, his clothing and weaponry was piled up beside him. Offended for reasons she wouldn't articulate, but which had everything to do with the blue-haired woman observing so dispassionately, Buffy drew the edges of the blanket over him.

"Spike," she called again, louder.

"I have tended to him," the blue-tinged woman stated decisively.

"You don't get it," Buffy insisted in a rush of anxiety as he remained unresponsive. "He's a vampire, he needs blood—"

"I have tended to him. He does not require your assistance."

Reaching out to gently touch his face, Buffy snatched her hand back in shocked disbelief as the skin beneath her fingertips felt flushed with fever. "I... I don't understand – he's not… he shouldn't…"

"My blood is richer than your own. It has a potent affect upon him. But he is strong. He will heal, and regain himself in due course. For now, he only requires rest."

Buffy's eyes narrowed as she turned her head to regard the woman again, a twinge of anger rippling through her at the condescending tone. And the surprising realization that this woman was close enough to Spike that she permitted him to feed from her.

With years of slayage to help hone her perception, Buffy found it obvious that there was more to this woman than met the eye. And even what met the eye was enough to give her pause. Undoubtedly, this was a warrior. Noticeably human in appearance, and yet more than a little inhuman in demeanor. White-blue eyes, a bluish frost-rimed forehead, and blue-tinged lips. She looked like death warmed over. Death by exposure in a windswept arctic wasteland. Even in her hair, there were gaudy blue strips of hair over brown, fluttering like pennants in the wind when she moved.

"Who are you?" Buffy wondered aloud, repeating her earlier question.

"Who are you?" the woman countered with emotionless precision.

Neither one of them gave an answer.

Buffy recalled Dawn's words as her sister had tried to peer through the portal: she'd said that Spike and Angel hadn't fought alone, that others had been with them… _'a very strange woman, and a dying man…'_ This, she supposed, was the woman Dawn had seen. She certainly fit the description of 'very strange,' anyway. After a moment's consideration, Buffy ventured to guess, "You're Illyria, aren't you? In the desert, when we were fighting, I heard Spike call out that name."

The woman's chin lifted fractionally, her eyes sparking. "I am Illyria. He called to me, and I came to him. But he was only wounded in trying to protect **you**, Buffy of the Summers."

_Great. So we both of us know who the other is,_ Buffy thought. And although the way Illyria mangled her last name was almost funny, there was absolutely no mistaking the reproach in the other woman's statement.

"And what about Angel?" Buffy questioned further. "Is he here too?" But, glancing around the dim periphery of the vacant room, she saw no hint of anyone else.

"There are no angels here, childish one." A note of finality ringing in her words. "Only gods and demons."

_I'm not a child._ She almost spoke it aloud – the words were on the tip of her tongue – but, at the last moment, thought better of it. Didn't have the energy, at the moment, for an argument – and anyway, she suspected that this Illyria person was only taking her measure, trying to gauge responses and reactions, and Buffy didn't want to play along. Not now. Maybe later, when some of her strength had returned and the newness of this place didn't feel so much like dizziness.

Letting the comment pass unchallenged, Buffy turned her attention back towards Spike.

His skin was a mottled panoply of bruises. Loosening the cloth bandages to inspect his injuries, she was relieved to see that the ragged stab wound in his side had healed to the point that it was now a livid slash of red branding his abdomen. His left arm was still painfully discoloured and faintly distorted – maybe it had been broken, she realized, and tried not to recall the sickening crunch of the demon's jaws as it bit down. Though the shredded skin had already knitted itself closed, his arm was pockmarked with the scars from many puncture wounds.

There were, she realized, letting her eyes sweep across his body, more scars than there should have been, many more than she remembered. Some had all but faded into invisibility, while new ones layered on top. She wondered how much he must have been pushing himself to amass such a collection of scars that even his vampiric healing could not keep pace with.

She wondered how it was that he had not burned to death in the caverns beneath Sunnydale.

She wondered why he had never bothered to tell her he was alive.

Fragments of the last words he'd spoken to her echoed through her memory: _'No you don't—'_

Lurching upright, Buffy stumbled away from him, away from Illyria's vigilant gaze. But this place was dark and forbidding, and there was nowhere for her to go. Before her, a massive stone pillar soared up into the gloomy darkness; Buffy made her way unsteadily toward it, still favouring her injured leg. Leaning against the cool stone, she stared blindly at the surrounding shadows, furiously trying to settle her unsettled thoughts.

"Are you unwell?" Though the words seemed to hint at a nominal concern, the inflection in Illyria's voice stopped just short of indifference.

"I'm… I'm okay," Buffy said, because what else could she say? But she wasn't.

It was too much. Too much like fever – was she ill? Or was it just too many memories, too much emotion all at once? – a great twisted knot of hope and despair that she'd never dared look at too closely. Slaying and responsibility, and the suffocating weight of counting lives – warding them and spending them and choosing one over the other… Wanting, but not having… So many things, and so few. Wanting to love, and be loved. Both wanting and fearing that ardent, all-consuming grand passion that had so scarred and damaged her when she'd been too too young to recover from it. Only to find it again, when it was too late. To realize that it had always been there, hers for the taking, if only she'd ever really dared to stretch out her hand.

But he'd taken her hand, and felt it burning; he'd smiled at her and sent her away, and he'd died.

Only he hadn't. He'd come back, but hadn't come back to her…

Despite her best efforts, Buffy felt her emotions begin to boil over. All the grief she'd held restrained for so long, all the feelings she'd repressed, they refused to stay buried any longer.

No tears, because her eyes were bone-dry and her lungs were parched, and the water Illyria had given her had not begun to slake that thirst. But her breath hitched and hiccupped in her throat like weeping, and for long uncomfortable moments, she couldn't stop it, couldn't control it. And when she'd finally finished her little meltdown, Buffy lifted her head to see the slim figure of Illyria still standing there across the room, watching with dispassion, but intently watching nevertheless.

"You should not exert yourself in trivial emotion," the woman instructed. "You are already weak. You should regain your strength, else you will remain useless."

Too exhausted to be offended, Buffy merely shrugged. "Shoulda, coulda, woulda," she said without much fervor. "Doesn't ever really make a difference, does it?"

"No," Illyria agreed, sour and stone-faced. "It does not." For a moment longer she stood there – her eyes almost catlike in the gloom, and Buffy wondered just what the hell it was about her that the other woman found so fascinating, that she wouldn't stop staring – and then Illyria suddenly demanded, her voice a growl in the darkness, "Why have you come here, human girl?"

Almost the very same question the demon creature had asked her in the desert before trying to kill her. It set warning bells off in her mind. "I…" Her eyes instinctively flicked toward Spike. "I had to find something," she nearly stuttered, feeling very far off her game at the moment. "Someone," she amended. "Spike. And – and Angel."

"Why?"

How could one syllable contain so much distrust? Buffy lifted her chin. "I want to talk to Spike," she insisted stubbornly. "Not you."

Illyria's only response was an unblinking gaze. Then her head slowly canted to one side, as if she were listening to something Buffy could not hear. "I must resume our defenses," Illyria stated in a sudden change of subject. "As you are of no use in your present state, you must remain here."

Buffy wasn't sure if that was meant to be a deliberate snub, or if it were just that this strange woman had no tact whatsoever. Didn't really matter. She had no intention of going anywhere without Spike anyway.

Whirring into motion, Illyria turned away from Buffy, stalking purposefully into the darkness, towards the shape of a doorway cut into the deeply shadowed stone walls. Buffy had not even noticed it there, and now she squinted: was it a tunnel, or a staircase? Whatever it was, it seemed to be the only way out.

Illyria paused to chatter unintelligibly to what appeared to be a scrubby thorn-bush, which abruptly stirred in response. Until that moment, Buffy had scarcely taken note of the unmoving shape, much less realized it was a living creature. Sitting small and still, and covered almost entirely with bristly needles, it reminded her vaguely of an oversized porcupine.

Before leaving, Illyria turned back to level a stern gaze upon Buffy. "Do not attempt to harm him," she ordered pointedly, nodding towards the unconscious vampire.

"I would never—" And paused in her heated denial, grimacing uncomfortably at an unpleasant memory. "That's not why I came here," she said wearily.

Illyria did not ask why she had come. Perhaps she didn't care. She simply turned and walked away, the sound of her footsteps fading quickly. The porcupine-creature settled in front of the doorway, watching Buffy with dark beadlike eyes.

Buffy stood where she was for a long moment, her pulse racing with the sudden feeling of helplessness, of being hopelessly out of control. _Where am I? What have I done?_ The strangeness of everything around her was almost overwhelming – and it felt very much like panic.

Calm down and focus, she admonished herself, focus on the familiar. She turned her eyes back towards Spike.

Returning to his side, Buffy settled down next to him. "Spike," she murmured, lightly touching her hand to his face. A face that, at one time, she'd never expected to see again. She'd thought that she'd never have another memory of him to displace that last image of him standing, doomed, trapped, lit with life and fire and soul – a blaze that would burn him to cinders. She'd dreamt of it, that burning, for so many many nights afterward. It never completely left her mind.

She traced her fingertips along his cheekbone – he looked younger, somehow. Calm and peaceful in a way she scarcely remembered. But those last two years had been difficult… for both of them.

"I've made mistakes," Buffy confided in a whisper, not sure if she were speaking the words aloud only because Spike was obviously beyond hearing anything. "Was it a mistake, coming here? I don't know what I'm doing. I didn't think."

What had she expected, when she'd gone leaping so fearlessly through that portal? Even now, she wasn't quite sure. An epic battle. A friendly guide. Or maybe just a bright yellow brick road that would lead her exactly where she needed to go. All she knew was that she hadn't expected to feel so disoriented, adrift… alone.

"I don't like it here," she breathed. "I don't like your friends. I wish—" And she stopped her own voice. Two dangerous words. Two words she never said anymore, and now a great snare of wishes tumbled, all unspoken, in a jumbled, smothering muddle within her heart. _—turn back time, bring back the dead, stay that way, stay, break my heart so completely that it never feels this way again—_

But she was worlds away from home, with nary a vengeance demon to be seen – and maybe it had been a bad thing, anyway, to stop wishing for things.

"I wish you and I were in Rome, right now," she dared, a bubble of giddy laughter on her lips at the thought that anything could be so easy. Make a wish and have it come true. But it was only ever the bad wishes, the ill-spoken ones, that were overheard and granted. "Standing by the fountains. The Trevi," she murmured dreamily, thinking of all that water with a delirious sense of longing. God, her throat was dry. She dared take another sip from the water skein, but the vinegary taste of it seethed against her throat. "I wish I had some real water… that I didn't feel so… lost. And I really wish you'd wake up and talk to me."

No reaction, not even from the porcupine lurking in the shadows. Everything was still and silent, the oppressive darkness folding like a tomb around her.

With nothing else to do but wait, Buffy stretched out beside Spike, resisting the urge to touch him. She lay down beside him, eyes wide in the darkness, and tried to rest.

* * *

"Buffy…" A wispy exhalation of air. 

Jolted back to awareness, Buffy lifted her head, turning to find unfocused blue eyes fixed upon her face. An overwhelming relief flooded through her. She'd begun to fear the vampire would never wake from his comatose state. The grin on her face felt goofily wide, but she didn't bother trying to restrain it. "Hey," Buffy greeted happily as she leaned over him, inwardly kicking herself for her lack of eloquence.

A drowsy befuddlement hovered over his features. "Wh… what're… you doin'… here…?"

"Just dropped in to see the sights," she tried to quip lightly. "Sun and sand – what's not to like?"

"Are you…" He stirred fitfully, a shuddering along his shoulders as if he were trying to rise, but didn't manage the movement. "You… all right?"

"Looks like I'm the one who should be asking you that question. Don't worry – I'm fine." Ignoring the tingling heat of her brow, the resonant pain of her wounded leg. "But you're supposed to be resting. Somehow, I think that Illyria will want to kick my ass if she catches me talking to you." At the mention of Illyria's name, his eyes broke contact; his bleary gaze bounced about the room. "She's out," Buffy supplied. "Didn't really tell me where. I don't think she likes me very much."

Only the barest hint of a smile, and he lifted his fingertips to brush against the straying tendrils of her hair. "What's… not to like…?"

She smiled back at him, but tried to be stern. "You need to rest." Catching his hand, she placed it back beside him. "I'll wait here with you."

He nodded, his eyelids already fluttering shut as he sank into a breathless, motionless stillness. She touched his cheek, finding the skin still warmer than it should have been, but the intensity of the fever was fading.

Such a strange thing, to touch him and feel warmth beneath her fingertips.

"I missed you, Spike," she whispered.

Though she'd thought he had already lapsed back into unconsciousness, his breath stirred in an almost inaudible reply: "Missed you too… Buffy…"


	9. Chapter 9: The Dragon & The Undying

Disclaimer: The characters of "Buffy the Vampire Slayer" and "Angel" belong to Joss Whedon and Mutant Enemy. The original characters are my fault. No copyright infringement intended, and as this is posted for free, and read for free, nobody is losing any money. Suing me won't make you any money either (wah! see my puny bank account!), so let's just not.**  
**

Author's Note (of Apology): I'm very very sorry that this chapter took so long. RL got busy, I got stressed out and stopped writing, and then had a hard time starting up again. Even in less stressful times, I can't seem to manage more than a chapter a month, so you have been warned. :-)

This chapter's title "The Dragon and the Undying" is borrowed from the title of a poem by Siegfried Sassoon. The poem doesn't have anything in common with this story, except that I like Sassoon's poetry.

Large blocks of italics indicate flashbacks.

* * *

**Chapter 9: The Dragon & The Undying**

_The strobe light of memory – the cold rain-slicked, blood-slicked alleyway that was awash with death; the expansive, explosive pressure of the portal appearing above, around, beneath them; blinding, swallowing them whole._

_Raw. An almost incomprehensible raw-edged tattered state of being... as if caught up in a saw-toothed jaw, beneath the crushing bite of a molar not meant to tear. Friend and foe were packed together in some dark, tiny, voiceless nightmare corner of the universe. Compression, ribs beginning to splinter and crack. No room for blood, air, marrow or memory. Flatten and fold and pressed smaller, always smaller. Pushed to the very edge, to the end of self. End of everything._

_And then – pop! – back into existence, back into wholeness, back as if everything that had just happened had been only one instant's bad dream, and they were through the portal – it was spitting them out into a place he didn't know – to a place where the earth shuddered and pitched in angry tremors beneath them, and the dark sky rippled with sheets of unnatural lightning – elsewhen, elsewhere._

_Hordes of demons. Hordes. All the hosts of hell, all screaming bloody murder._

_Gunn, stumbling and falling for the final time, struck down, spitting blood and breathing his last – killed by a swordstroke and the night's accumulation of injuries. Humans were fragile, Illyria said. They lived for but a moment, and died in the blinking of an eye. She was angered, she declared, grieved; she was not herself. And she left Gunn's side and waded out into the onslaught, killing with her bare hands, lethal destruction, and the chaotic throng of demons parted briefly like waves below her then swallowed her from sight._

_And Angel... Angel seemed to go mad, insane with grief. Perhaps he'd lost too much and too many in his cause; perhaps he'd decided his holy crusade against Wolfram & Hart was the only thing he had left. Dark indomitable ferocity – steel and fang and fist – he turned in the other direction and fought his way to the dragon. Dragon. Mad. Insane. No one could defeat such a thing. A brief remembrance of history and legend flared in his mind – Saint George. Yes, Saint George slew the dragon. But they were none of them saints. Angel said soul or no soul, they were all damned – all of them – but he would not go down without a fight._

_Spike followed him. Steel and fang and fist, he followed Angel. What else could he do? And the great beast lifted head, beat wings, a terrifying intelligence sparking in those cold-fire eyes. Chilled the blood. But Angel marched forward, his sword held high and righteous against it as the dragon roared, and Spike moved to follow, only at the last second catching sight of that great barbed tail sweeping toward him from the side, too swiftly to evade, and—_

_The world exploded within him and around him. Felt a dizzying rush of movement, even though his body was no longer capable of movement, a blur as he tumbled through the air and came crashing down to land on his broken back upon the ground, bleeding out from his punctured sides. Agony. Almost unendurable. Couldn't staunch his wounds, couldn't move fingers, couldn't move legs, couldn't turn his head, couldn't even howl out his pain, because the voice needed air from the lungs to function, and those were paralyzed too. Useless. Lay there in a perfect imitation of undead death, while Angel fought on, screaming in rage, in bottomless fury, the hacking movements of his sword as he fought only just visible from the corner of Spike's fixed gaze. The dragon loomed overlarge, a hulking giant that towered over its sole opponent._

_Angel cried out. A different cry. Pain, desolation, ruination. "Spike...!"_

_Spike couldn't see him. Couldn't see. The dark shadow that was the dragon moved, the wind from its wings whipping great gusts of dust and sand that blustered over the corpses on the battlefield – the dragon took to the sky and flew away. Whole and undefeated._

_Devastation. Utter and complete._

_Strange demons stalked slowly through the carnage of the battlefield. One paused to consider him, then thrust a sword through his sternum. No movement, no sound, not even a twitch of the eyes to betray him, and they continued on their way, leaving him for dead while his few undamaged nerve endings were screaming such excruciating torment that he wanted to be able to die._

_The hush that began to settle around him was broken only by the choking, moaning death rattles of the fatally wounded left to perish. Soon enough, they all fell silent. Sand rained into his face and his eyes, the night wind blowing, and the small coherent corner of his mind still functioning wondered if he could possibly endure this until morning, when the sunrise would mercifully put an end to him._

_He'd lost track of time, was scarcely aware of anything outside his own pain, when footsteps came rustling through the sand, another shadow drawing near._

_Illyria leaned overtop him. "You exist still," her clear tones crisp and biting. "I have retrieved Angel's sword," she said, lifting the bright, bloodstained blade into view, "but he is gone. They must have taken him. I know not where." She reached down, and some of the dirt and the sand fell away as she turned his head towards her. Her own face and form marked all over with blood and ruin, but the intensity of her gaze was undimmed. "You are wounded, vampire. But I will bring you with me, and you will heal."_

_And the last thing he recalled before his senses shattered completely was Illyria leaning forward to pick him up._

* * *

_A small hand pressed firmly upon the side of his face, a voice commanding him to wake and listen. Power and demand. He fought the lethargy, his eyes opening to a hazy blur he could not quite comprehend, and listened._

"_You are not healing as you should." Illyria's voice, full of censure and displeasure. "Time passes and you do but linger in this fashion. Why?"_

_Why? The question trickled slowly through his consciousness. Why? Because he'd lost too much blood to retain his strength, and his injuries were too severe to heal without blood. He was trapped in that futile state of half-life where all his remaining energy was expended on merely existing, with none left to spare for healing. "Bl... blood," he whispered, having to force his lungs to expel enough air to make the words audible, and even that small task exhausted him. "Can't heal... without..."_

"_You require blood."_

_Of course. A vampire could go on for a long long time without falling into dust, but some injuries were too extreme to overcome without sustenance. And he remembered the dragon – massive, monstrous, with sharp shiny teeth and long bony pikes lining that serpentine tail that twitched back and forth... Twitched, and cracked like eggshells, all the bones in his back. What had become of Angel, he wondered distractedly, and tried, irrationally, to call his name. Angel. Angelus. Why aren't you here? Where—_

_A firm grasp at the back of his neck. Illyria, he realized. Illyria. 'You break so easily,' she'd told him once, maybe not so long ago, as she knocked him to the floor during one of their sparring sessions with a single negligent gesture. 'Why do you bother getting back up?' He knew he couldn't have got up now, not on his own, because now he was broken... well and truly broken..._

_But Illyria lifted him up and held him close without chastising. Though the touch of her hands on his ruined back was near torture, her body was a contradictory blend of softness and steel. He breathed to catch the scent of her – a peculiar intermixture of human and an exotic otherness. The body itself was still nominally human, but that scent was overlaid with a dissimilar essence – not the familiar demonic pungency, but the disconcerting sensation of something far older, puissant..._

_She tipped his head, turned it toward her and pressed it firmly against the vein she had opened on the side of her neck._

_A spasm of shock. Not at all like the honey-sweetness of human blood, but fraught with a potent corrosive strength that seized him and rattled against his nerve endings to the point of sensory overload. He couldn't tell whether he was drinking it in or drowning in it. Blood and fire and the end of the world..._

_He lost himself in that chaos, until her voice came again, like the sound of thunder in his veins. "Rest now," she ordered with stern authority, as she let him loose, laying him down once more, and his head was whirling, sinking him swiftly back into unconsciousness. "I will tend to you until you are healed."_

* * *

That dream again – the memories of the battle that had brought them here – why was he dreaming of **that** again? Spike wondered, stirring as he began to regain consciousness, and falling still when his pained limbs protested a little too strongly. 

No matter how much time had passed, it seemed that night's memories still haunted him, that dragon prowled relentlessly through his restive mind. Illyria – the taste of her – like metal and fire, forged in a white-hot furnace, and burning painfully against his sharpened teeth. The harrowing torment of his shattered spine. Angel's despair. That sound he had made in his throat, before he disappeared, vanished, was carried away or eaten or whatever had become of him. Always, Angel's despair, unfurling like black wings that shadowed everything.

And... "...Buffy?" Opening his eyes in the same moment that he mumbled her name, he woke to find himself alone. Strange that he'd dreamt of her... of Buffy. He didn't so much anymore – tried not to, anyway. And when he did, it was usually distant and regretful.

But there'd been such a surreal vividness to this dream – not taking place in her happy little world of white picket fences, she'd been here, fighting a losing battle against demons in the scorching heat of the Kotulka deserts; she'd been leaning over him, speaking to him, smiling down at him. And for a delirious instant, some small piece of him had almost expected to open his eyes and find that it was true.

No Buffy, which was not surprising.

No Illyria, which was a bit surprising. But, catching sight of Puffin's barbellate form hunched unobtrusively by the entrance, he felt his tension ease somewhat. He recognized the surroundings. This was one of the abandoned ruins at Chutna – it was one of Illyria's more secretive hiding places, which she used sparingly – too close, she always said, to other nexus of power, too near to enemy eyes. If they were holed up here, things must still be a bit dicey. On the other hand, if she'd left Puffin on watch, the situation couldn't be too dire. And she was never gone for too long, anyway.

Deciding to wait for Illyria to come back and update him on current events, Spike let his head drop back down, briefly closing his eyes.

"Must have given me a double-dose this time," he muttered to himself, trying to suppress the headache buzzing around his skull. Illyria's blood was a powerful restorative – maybe more than a little too potent for him, but it wasn't like he had a lot of alternatives.

Even so, the fever-dreams and resultant hangovers were a bit of a drawback. At this point, if he were given a choice, he'd rather not remember the past quite so clearly: Fred's tragic and senseless death, Angel's doomed crusade... What had they been thinking, to choose to go out and die in a battle they couldn't possibly win? They hadn't died, but they hadn't won either.

More to the point, why did he keep doing it? Going out to be broken on the battlefield, and pieced back together, again and again, by Illyria, who was the only unbreakable thing left in his life. Thoughts of Prometheus and Sisyphus passed through his unsettled mind, and Spike briefly wondered if perhaps Angel had been right; if they had all been doomed to hell, then maybe this was it, and each of them was now walking that road.

And then gave a derisive snort, which sent a spasm of pain rippling through his midsection. "Ow! Bloody hell, that hurts..." Served him right. All that philosophical moodiness had always been Angel's bit – in Spike, it was a sure sign of a concussion. If he didn't snap out of it and get off his sorry arse before Illyria returned, she'd get to yammering on about the feebleness of vampires and all of the other not-God-King-like creatures of the world, and his head ached too much at the moment to even consider listening to that speech again.

Spike groaned as he slowly coaxed his body up into a sitting position – muscles strained and twinged complainingly, but nothing tore. Couldn't ask for much more than that. And then stopped and stared with goggling incomprehension at the bandages wrapped efficiently about his arm and his side. A long, ragged swath of lace-trimmed fabric, looking almost as if it had been ripped from a piece of women's clothing. He hadn't seen lace since—

Taking a deep breath, he scented the air. "Buffy...?!" That wasn't possible... was it? Tried to look every which way at once, which only made him dizzy, and he cursed as he toppled clumsily onto one elbow. "Puffin," he yowled pugnaciously, "where in the sodding hell are my clothes?!"

The small creature shifted at the sound of its name, turned to regard him with black glittering eyes, and chittered something in response. The curt reply either meant "right where you left them" or "stop yelling, you wanker." Spike hadn't quite got the hang of the finer points of its language yet, but for the time being, he didn't have anyone else to shout at.

Spying his clothing piled up in the corner, he clumsily pulled out his boots and his pants, struggling to get dressed. But his balance wasn't right, and the little shimmers of pain running along his nerve endings were threatening to cramp if he moved too quickly. Trying to ignore all of that, he focused on the thought of Buffy. Could it really be her? Didn't seem possible... but that maddening scent still lingered in the air. Where was she? If she were here, then why wasn't she **here**? He had to go out there and find her – damn it, if anything had happened to her...

Puffin bounced down from the steps, chattering again, and this time Spike understood perfectly. But he shook his head. "You can't stop me," he said, even as Puffin's needlelike quills lifted and spread outwards like a giant bristly blowfish that was going to be more than a little difficult to get past. "It's Buffy," he insisted, as if that would mean anything to the small creature. "If she's out there, I'm going."

The sibilant hiss that came in response was a very definitive "no."

Spike shifted his stance, letting his eyes flash golden, a rush of ferocity running through his veins as his body morphed into its more potent vampire form. Trying to draw strength from that giddy onrush of demonic power, even though he knew that in his present state that it wouldn't be enough, he roared a challenge at the small creature.

Puffin did not give way, either sensing that there was very little substance beneath Spike's bravado, or else simply determined to comply with whatever directives Illyria had placed upon it before leaving: most likely "protect" and "prevent."

Damn babysitter.

Of course, if Puffin insisted on barring the way, there was little he could do about it. In his current condition, catching even a few of the poison-tipped quills would likely knock him flat. Nothing for it but to try to find another way out of here.

Unexpectedly, however, Puffin deflated, lowering its quills and sidling out of the way. Seizing his chance without question, Spike bounded past it and into the tunnel leading upward.

A deceptively slender figure barred the way, descending the stairs with imperious attitude. "Your caterwauling," Illyria stated, "is clamorous enough to waken even the deaf and dead still slumbering within the Deeper Well. And it is," she added with a disdainful sniff, "most ill befitting."

"Spare me the sodding lecture, Miss Manners! Where is she? Where's—" The demanding question died in his throat as he saw movement in the shadows behind Illyria. The unspoken words hissed out between his teeth like breath. No words.

In shocked surprise, he slipped back into human form, the sudden loss of his vampiric strength nearly toppling him. Even so, he scarcely noticed.

Almost illusory as she moved through the gloom, Buffy looked as insubstantial as any one of his memories: small and slim-limbed, the pale glow of her hair, and wide luminous eyes fixed on his... god, those eyes of hers. Expressive and unguarded in a way he hadn't seen in ages – not closed – not veiled.

"Hey," Buffy said, the subtle sound of a smile more than half-hidden in the odd brittleness of her voice. "You're finally awake."

Was he? The thought crossed his mind that he might be dreaming. That he'd obviously cracked his skull during the latest skirmish with the bad guys, and all of this was only a fragment of his muddled blood-fed fever-dreams. Might be. Must be.

But Illyria felt substantial enough beneath his grip as he pushed past her, moving up the narrow staircase.

And Buffy, when he caught disbelievingly at her hand, didn't wither away as he touched her, didn't vanish into a puff of wistful memory. Her skin was a bonfire beneath his fingertips, her pulse fluttering like a bird's wings. His own heart seemed to lurch in response, as if recalling a distant memory of beating. "Buffy. I... can hardly believe it... You're... here? I thought I was... I mean, how did you... How..."

Mercifully, Illyria interrupted his tongue-tied stammerings with a deeply irritated declaration: "You are obstructing the stairwell. It is irksome. Come in or go away." And her footsteps stalked off in a firmly disapproving staccato.

"And I used to think that Kennedy was temperamental," Buffy remarked in a perilous tone of voice that was tipping somewhere between amusement and aggravation. "Where did you find **her**?"

"We didn't; she found us. Story for another time," he said, cutting himself short as he abruptly registered the tremor running through Buffy's limbs, and only then realized how pale she was. Bloody idiot. Too busy gawking like a fool to notice that she was injured. "Come on. Let's get you inside."

"I'm okay," she murmured, but did not refuse his assistance, which meant she wasn't. "Mostly okay," she amended faintly. "Just waiting for the patented Slayer strength to kick in again. I'm expecting it... any minute now actually..."

What happened? He almost asked the question aloud, but his sluggish brain finally whirred back into action, suddenly starting to connect the dots. Abruptly, he recalled the quiet, still morning – couldn't have been more than a day or two ago now – but it had been just after daybreak, and everything was bright and gleaming and oddly peaceful. They had been making their way through the wilds, hoping for a quick and uneventful crossing, when Illyria had suddenly halted in mid-stride, pivoting around as if in response to a summons only she could hear. "The door has opened," she had said, with something like shock in her voice, "someone has come."

He hadn't grasped the import of her words, and his own questions had been unremarkable. "Which door? Where?"

"**My** door." Such solemn emphasis. "The entrance into this plane of existence." Her glassy eyes focused on invisible things. "The enemy has sent emissaries to attend to it." With barely a pause, she then voiced her customary strategy: "We will intercept and destroy them."

"Could be a trap," he'd reminded her. Could be... but then again, the two of them were a bad influence on each other – she'd always been far too overconfident for her own good, with an appetite for destruction that greatly outstripped her size, and he'd never been able to resist a good brawl and the chance to settle a few scores. "Oh, what the hell," he'd conceded, casting caution aside with a rakish grin. "Okay, let's go bust some skulls. Lead on, MacDuff."

Illyria had favoured him with the exceedingly skeptical look she reserved for his more baffling statements, but had said nothing. Merely stalked forward and gestured, ripping a glittering blue-white portal in the air – and once again he'd had to marvel at her effortless skill, at how much more powerful she'd grown here, in this place, as if it were a hothouse of mystical energy. Sometimes it worried him – sometimes he thought of her power outstripping her body, as it had once before, with nearly devastating results – and how would he save her, then? Wesley, like all the others, was gone...

But for now, anyway, her power was utterly within her control, and the portal she'd opened had dropped them into the midst of a pack of Grushnalk soldiers – hardy, hulking brutes that were sent out when bashing and smashing was the only diplomacy intended.

And Buffy had been there, fighting them.

Buffy. Impossible. Not her, and not here. Couldn't be. Illusion or deception. Some kind of trap. And yet, even if it had been, he knew he'd still have walked right into it just the way he had. Because... Buffy. She'd always been his fatal flaw, and he'd never ever quite been able to turn his back on her.

Most of his adrenalin-charged memories of the battle had by now dissipated into a disorderly haze, but he didn't need them to see that Buffy hadn't escaped unscathed. Even in the shadow, he glimpsed the smudges of bruises marring her cheekbone and her jaw, a few scratches on her neck and many more on her arms. A bulky swath of fabric was bunched overtop her flimsy, shredded shirt in a makeshift bandage, and another wrapped around her leg; he could feel the shivers of exhaustion running through her as he helped her sit down.

"Are you all right, Buffy?"

"I've had better days," she admitted after a pause, "but it's nothing I can't handle. I'll get by."

For a long moment he stared at her, disbelief still trying to overcome him. "Buffy... Buffy..." He was dumbfounded, mumbling her name over and over, and made an attempt to form a coherent sentence. "How did you get here, Buffy? Why did you come?"

"She is searching for Angel," Illyria stated.

Some part of him was faintly amazed that those words didn't cause him greater pain, but it had been a long time now, hadn't it?, and maybe he'd finally accustomed himself to living without her. All he felt was a distant, muted ache. "Yeah. Aren't we all," he said, the words dry as dust in his throat.

"Angel?" Buffy repeated fuzzily, her voice lifting into a question. "Is he here?"

"No. No, he's... not." He dared to touch his hand lightly against her face, found it burning. "You're feverish – shouldn't be up and about like this." His narrowed eyes flicked towards Illyria. "What were you doing? Where did you take her?"

"She required water," Illyria replied evenly. "She had already consumed all that there was here."

He thought of the long crumbling stairway winding upward in the dark, and an ailing Buffy having to climb it. "What, and you couldn't just go on your own and bring some back here?"

"I do not stoop," Illyria said very precisely, "to feed her."

"We're on a mountaintop," Buffy interrupted in a vague confusion, not seeming to have noticed their quiet side conversation, and her voice sounded thready and stifled in the long darkness of the room. "I saw outside, it's all cloud and stone – it felt cold. But there was a desert – what happened to the desert?"

"Illyria brought you here, to keep you safe," he explained gently. "Don't you remember?"

"But... what is this place?" Buffy persisted.

Spike hesitated, not sure whether she were asking about the cavernous chamber they'd temporarily settled in, or the larger frame of the world she'd fallen into.

Illyria, however, chose to answer only in the most concrete terms: "For the moment, it is sanctuary from prying eyes."

"We think... it might have been some kind of temple," he tried to explain, "or a place of learning, but whatever it was is a long time ago now..."

"Wise ones and holy fools," Illyria agreed, her head swiveling round to gaze at the crumbling columns only just holding aloft the heavy roof overhead. "Here they sang songs of power, painted gaudy sigils and consulted with the stars. But now they are naught but bone and dust, and all their pale paintings are tarnished with the grime of many years."

"Okaaay." Buffy's voice was uncertain. "And so you come here... why?"

"The stars still burn bright in the night sky," Illyria replied stolidly, as if that were explanation enough. "I see the old ways."

"Some of the protections still seem to hold," Spike translated. "This place – seems like it's a bit of a blind spot on the map. At any rate, the bad guys haven't yet found us out here. But we don't usually stay too long—"

"We have lingered overlong already," Illyria chastised.

"Bad guys," Buffy echoed, still seeming a little disoriented. "And just who are they?"

"You are replete with ignorance, and your enquiries are tedious. Is this your usual state, or were you damaged in combat?"

Buffy's gaze sharpened noticeably, a spark of irritation momentarily overriding her fatigue. "You're blue and funny-looking. Is that **your** usual state, or was there some big accident at the cosmetics factory?"

"Impertinent," Illyria stated.

"Arrogant," Buffy retorted.

"Right, then," Spike interrupted, quickly moving to stand between them. A little too quickly, and tried not to flinch at the warning flash of pain in his side – had to try to remember he wasn't anywhere near healed yet. "Glad to see that you two are getting on like houses on fire," he said sourly. "Now that everyone's just met, how about we try to **not** kill each other for a while yet? We've got more than enough to worry about as it is."

"I am in no danger," Illyria scoffed haughtily.

"Yeah? You bloody well will be if Gresalk's people come kicking down the door," he answered sharply. "Come on, Blue – you said it yourself: I'm not a hundred percent, and she's not either. So let's just find a safe place to bolt to, get there in one piece, and then we can argue about—"

"Wait." Buffy caught a handful of his shirt as he started to move away from her. "Spike. We have to talk." Her fingers shaking as they knotted in the fabric.

Words he wanted to ask: Are you sure? Are you ready? Not now. Later. You need rest. You need to get better. And the way she looked now, he could almost pretend that he meant it all for her sake, and not for his... It had been a long time since he'd seen Buffy quite so pale, so unnaturally faint and unsteady, not at all the indomitable spitfire he remembered – but he also knew this weakness must be transitory, a passing thing. It was the stain at her side, the flush of her skin; a combination of loss of blood and heat exhaustion, and nothing more. She'd recover soon enough, given time – and food and drink, he realized with an unexpected sense of alarm – two things that he and Illyria needed so sparingly that it seldom held any urgency for either of them.

"Talk," he echoed dumbly. "That can wait. Look at you, Buffy – you're exhausted."

"No. No, I'm not." The halting shortness of breath in her voice belied her words. "I need to do this now, Spike."

"Why?"

"Because... because I just **do**, that's all."

"Okay. Okay. What is it, then?" He swallowed past the lump in his own throat. "Angel, is it? Don't worry. We're going to find him."

"Yes. No. I mean..." Her voice was agitated. Buffy shut her eyes for a long moment, seeming to catch her breath. "Wait. What do you mean you're 'going to find him?' You don't know where he is?"

Put bluntly, that was the gist of it – but Spike tried to find softer words, to offer her something that wouldn't dash her hopes.

Illyria was not nearly so restrained. "Angel is lost."

Her wide eyes blinking surprise, Buffy drew in a sharp breath, then winced with pain, pressing a hand against her chest. "But... lost? I don't understand. How can you have **lost** him...?"

Whether intended to or not, the words stung, and Spike flung out flippant words to deflect his own sense of failure: "Yeah, well, you know how it is, when you don't put the big lummox in the same damn place every time..." And then couldn't help but cringe at how callous it sounded.

Buffy stared at him, uncomprehending.

"We'll find him, Buffy. I promise." Mouthing the words, even though he didn't know when or how he'd be able to make them come true. He and Illyria had been looking now for a long time – almost as long as they'd been running – and they'd found nothing, not even ashes—

An awkward hush followed, tension crackling in all the unspoken words that flooded the silence.

When Buffy spoke again, the change of subject was not much easier to bear. "What happened after Sunnydale? Why didn't you tell me you were alive?"

"I'm not alive. I'm a vampire."

"You know what I mean." The clear tones of her voice ringing like condemnation. He wished it weren't such a familiar sound.

"Yeah, Buffy, I do." And what was the point of saying it, what was the point of going through all of it again. Unlife wasn't life. Undead was dead, and it was never ever going to be good enough. Never going to be anything more. Given enough time, even he'd been able to work that through his thick skull. No white picket fences and no happily ever after. Just a dead end. An ending. And that was what Sunnydale had been.

From the corner of his eye, he realized Illyria was still watching the two of them attentively, the hint of a smile on her lips that was equal parts mockery and amusement.

"Hey. Do you mind, Blue?"

"I do not mind," she replied with oblivious precision, as if it made perfect sense that this scene was being played out solely for her entertainment. "Continue."

"Illyria," he growled warningly.

"Spike," Buffy spoke again, recapturing his attention. Her voice imploring – and maybe it was just her weakness speaking, her injuries, but still... that hint of neediness captured him, made him want to give anything to ease it away – as she murmured, "Spike, please..."

And that instinctive, unspoken reply in his own heart: _Buffy..._

His jaw tightened, and there was a tremor within him. Still aching, still not quite healed, and perhaps he wasn't as over her as he wanted to believe.

"Later." His voice hard and unyielding, because he knew that strength was the only thing that she ever listened to. "When we're away from here, somewhere else, somewhere safe – but not now. Illyria and I need to plan a way out of here – it's dangerous for us to stay put too long, and I don't have time to argue with you right now. Just... trust me. All right?"

For a moment, he thought Buffy wasn't going to concede – she seemed to want to protest further – but then, it was a quirk of her nature, wasn't it, to fight him every step of the way. However, she surprised him by giving an awkward nod of her head that looked a little too much like lightheadedness. "Okay," she breathed shakily, wary and reluctant and so obviously tired – too tired to press any further.

All the same, she didn't exactly back down, either – Buffy's eyes trailed after him, and even in this darkness, there was a brilliancy in her gaze that went beyond fever. She was a sunlight that could burn him to ashes, back in her world. And just behind her, Illyria was standing like a dark shadow, her watchful eyes glimmering like the moon reflecting off of cold blue waters.

A summer's day, and the night wind; an impossible combustion of frost and flame –_ bloody hell,_ he thought, with a prescient shudder, _this is gonna be a train wreck._


	10. Chapter 10: Passing Sanctuary

Disclaimer: The characters of "Buffy the Vampire Slayer" and "Angel" belong to Joss Whedon and Mutant Enemy. The original characters are my fault. No copyright infringement intended, and as this is posted for free, and read for free, nobody is losing any money. Suing me won't make you any money either (wah! see my puny bank account!), so let's just not.

Author's Note: Many thanks to my sis Dorothy for betaing this chapter, even though she has a busy life of her own. As always, comments and concrit are appreciated. :-)

* * *

**Chapter ****10 : Passing Sanctuary**

"What the bloody hell's going on, Illyria?" The barely-leashed turmoil in Spike's voice gave it the sound of accusation, and it was only Buffy's nearness that kept it from rising into a shout. He was all too aware that Buffy had given way only because she was too worn down to press the issue – and not only did she need the rest right now, but he also needed some answers. "How did she get here?"

In counterpoint, Illyria was a study in composure – nothing, it seemed, ever fazed her. "It is evident enough to me: A portal opened. She came through."

"I know that! I figured that part out myself!" he snapped back at her, and then tried to rein himself in. He was more than a bit too tightly wound at the moment, and he'd long ago figured out that sometimes Illyria liked to jerk his chain just to see him jump. "It's the 'how' that's posing the big question. As in how the hell that's possible?" All this time, and the way back home had always been hid behind an impassable barrier, and nothing and no one had crossed through the portal that had brought them here, nor through any other. Not for lack of trying, either. Full stop and dead end. "I thought that they were closed – that all of them were closed. That's what you said, wasn't it? You said that there was no way here and no way back."

Something bordering on annoyance flared in her eyes. "That passage is closed to us. But she is a lowly being," Illyria replied with seeming disinterest. "Insignificant. It may be that only such a baseborn creature can slip beyond the edges of the portal. The snares were not set for the likes of her."

No, the gaping maw that had opened up beneath them had been summoned especially to swallow up monsters, vampires and god-kings – anything and everyone taking part in the battle. And while some random, luckless demons from their world had been near enough to the portal's epicenter that they'd been dragged down with them, so far as he knew, not a single other creature had been pulled through. It was a trap for his kind alone.

"She can't stay here."

"I have no interest in keeping her," Illyria stated by way of agreement. "She is burdensome, and will impede our progress."

"Don't get ahead of yourself, Bluebell; that's not what I meant," he countered quickly. "We're **not** abandoning her here. I'm talking about finding a way to send her back."

Illyria's cool eyes narrowed, very intently fixed upon him. "The way back into your world?" she intoned archly. "What has changed to make you believe that such a feat is now possible?" It wasn't a question; there was no uncertainty in her austere expression.

"She can't stay here," he repeated doggedly, as if his insistence would make a whit of difference to Illyria. Or, for that matter, Buffy, if she chose to set herself against it. "She doesn't belong here."

"None of us belong here," Illyria reminded him placidly, shifting her eyes away and staring past him in her damnably annoying way of dismissing him from her presence.

Not that it ever worked particularly well. A step sideways and he'd planted himself right back in her line of sight. "So then find a way to **send her back**." Aware that he was asking the impossible. Demanding, even. Which sometimes worked with her, and sometimes backfired spectacularly. "Illyria..."

"What do you suggest?"

Spike hesitated, thrown by Illyria's unexpected deference to his opinion. It felt out of place at the moment, considering that she was the one with the ability and lore to comprehend the mystical currents in this strange half-world, and she was the one who was always prying at dimensional doorways and listening to the sound of the earth and sky. His own contributions – hunting and tracking, partnering her in combat, and using what leverage he could to smooth over her sometimes heavy-handed excesses with the locals – none of those were likely to be of any material help in getting Buffy home again.

He had the distinct sense that something else was going on here, but he also knew without asking that Illyria wasn't going to fess up as to what it was until she was damn well good and ready, which meant he'd just have to watch and wait and see.

"If Buffy," he said, "– an insignificant little human – can get through here, then obviously the locks on the doors aren't wound up nearly as tight as we figured. So, you – being the great big God-King of everything – ought to be able to find a way to send her back home. Right?"

Illyria did not immediately respond to his prodding, but simply regarded him in an unmoving, stony hush, which – once upon a time – would have been more than a little intimidating. But he'd been with Illyria long enough now that he'd learned to read most of her inscrutable silences. This one did not have the feel of displeasure in it – just an odd watchfulness.

"Her intrusion onto this plane was unforeseen," Illyria stated obliquely, and Spike wasn't sure whether that was meant to be agreement, disagreement, or a brand new conversational topic altogether. "She has marred the perfection of this world."

Spike eyed her skeptically. "Hate to be the one to break it to you, Blue, but this hellhole wasn't ever what I'd call perfect. And besides," he went on, feeling compelled to offer some defense on Buffy's behalf, "once you get to know her, she's really not—"

"There was symmetry," Illyria said, brushing off his digression. "An all-encompassing equilibrium in the power and pulse and breadth of this world. It was that intricate balance that sustained our coexistence here. Now, there is—" she paused, her countenance growing even more remote as if she were measuring the state of the entire cosmos all around her. "—a flaw."

"All right, then. What kind of flaw?"

Her eyes slid away dismissively. "It is beyond your ken."

He resisted the urge to roll his eyes. She was in quite the mood today. "So give me the abridged version: are we talking about a nasty little scratch on the paint job, or the whole wide world knocked off its axis kind of problem?"

"That remains to be seen," she replied dourly.

"Have it your way," he sighed. "Just do me a favour and give me a heads-up once you've figured out what new brand of doom and disaster is headed our way. In the meantime, let's get the hell out of here before things get any worse—"

"No. We cannot leave now. It is as I said: we have lingered overlong." Illyria's moodiness seemed to have taken on a more pointed edge. "A shadow has drawn near to us." Not a physical shadow; he knew that Illyria was referring to something more imperceptible. Danger. The nearness of enemies. Portents of power that she seemed able to sense in the air around them. "Too near, now, for me to mask our movements. Discovery and pursuit would be inevitable. We must wait."

"Wait," he echoed disbelievingly. Her, the self-styled queen of bashing and smiting, wanting to sit out a potential fight? If she was resorting to that, either things were a lot worse than he thought, or there was something more at stake that she was choosing not to risk. This place? He glanced at the ruins around them, all dust and rubble. "For how long?"

She merely stared at him, long and unblinking, plainly prepared to wait until hell froze over if it served her purposes.

Though Spike had long ago learned to trust her instincts, he was reluctant to do so at the moment. "If they're sniffing around all that closely, then maybe we ought to be on the move right now. We've outrun them before."

Her eyes flicked away from his, disdainful. "If you had not needlessly chosen to wound yourself in ill-advised combat, that course might be open to us – but now you are weak. And she is less than useless."

"Okay, first of all, I'm taking issue with the 'chosen' part of your little lecture. It's not like I bloody well shot myself in the foot to get out on medical leave! I was a bit outnumbered back there, remember?"

"Hence, 'ill-advised.'"

"Secondly," he continued, ignoring her input, "Buffy isn't useless – she's strong and tough and determined as hell. She just got mowed down by several Grushnalks – give her a chance to find her feet, and the girl will surprise you. And third: Weak?!" he scoffed. "I'm not weak. I'm fine."

Illyria reached out toward him, and before he could step away, she took hold of his side. Though it was only a moderately firm grip, in his current state, it seemed an excessively punishing one. Torn muscles and mottled skin not yet healed, and her prodding fingers felt like steel.

"Aargh—!" Spike leapt away from her, an arm wrapped protectively around his wounded flank. He scowled ferociously. "That's a bloody rude way to prove your point."

She raised an eyebrow, silently daring him to dispute it, and Spike noticed the way the corners of her lips quirked upward in a barely perceptible smug little smile.

"All right," he conceded tightly, unhappy with the outcome, but temporarily resigned to it. "You win: We'll wait for a bit." He frowned. "And wipe that grin off your face. Gloating's not nice."

Turning away, he finally dared cast a glance over his shoulder, and was immensely relieved to see that Buffy had slumped over sideways into a restive sleep.

For the moment, then, he'd dodged that awkward conversation with her. Because, god, he didn't think he'd ever quite managed to resolve any of it in his own mind. But now Buffy was here – and he had to settle it all right now, didn't he? Clear his head but quickly, set it on straight before she started spinning it around again.

"Where are you going?"

Until Illyria asked the question, Spike hadn't realized he'd been moving, but found himself shambling unevenly towards the stairs. "Up. I need to... stretch my legs. Move around a bit." He wasn't fooling her, but mouthed the excuses anyway. Couldn't straight-out admit to running away. Not to the belligerent God-King who scorned any and all weaknesses. "I won't go far." He paused again. "Look after Buffy."

"Must I?"

Haughty, powerful and petulant, all at once. He laughed, even though nothing about this felt remotely funny, even though the sound of it was flat and humourless. "Yes, you must, Illyria," and he made sure she knew he meant it with every fiber of his being. "I'll be back soon."

* * *

Spike climbed the thin and crumbling staircase, hewn roughly out of stone – as Illyria said, anyway – by lesser beings. The implication being that her kind built things to last, apparently, which was ironic since Spike distinctly recalled Wesley reporting that Illyria's long-ago kingdom had fallen to ruins in her absence. 

A few times he had to lift a hand and press it against the side of the wall for balance, but the persistent ache of injury lingering in his side was not yet enough to make him ease up, and he climbed until he reached the top, moving towards the narrow, inconspicuous doorway, little more than a cleft in the rock of the mountainside. How Illyria had ever happened upon these ruins in the first place was beyond him, but, heeding her warnings of danger, he stopped just short of the entrance, staring out at the dark night sky beyond.

The high chill air off the mountaintop hit him in the face. He leaned into the draft. Needed air. Needed to breathe it. Needed to pretend that he was still human. "Bloody buggering hell," he muttered, watching his words fog into the cold air. Right now, he'd just about kill for a cigarette. And some hard liquor to wash it down, maybe loosen up some of his nervous tension just a bit.

God. The sight of Buffy – such a strange, unnerving feeling. He still couldn't make sense of it. Couldn't even use a word like bittersweet. It was all just... unsettled. Like the way even now the weather was gathering and fomenting on the horizon, and though he could see the signs of it in the sky, he still didn't know which way it would turn, or if the storm would ever come.

Why her? Why here? Why now? Seeing her again – it was a never-spoken wish come true and a brutal kick in the gut at the same time, and the only thing he was sure of at the moment was the turmoil churning inside him. Look after her; get her out of here; get her to safety. He couldn't do it all – couldn't do any of it – not here, not in this godforsaken place – and what the bloody hell had she been thinking, anyway, to come here willingly?

But that answer came easily enough: Angel. She'd come looking for Angel. Just like everyone else. Angel was the reason that he was here, that Illyria was here, and now the reason that Buffy was here. Needed to be clear on that. Needed to not get sidetracked...

Yeah, right. Cause he had such a good track record on that front.

The thing was... he'd been there, and done that. Loved Buffy, wanted Buffy, bundled it all together in twenty different kinds of hope and need and audacity and burning, and always never quite reaching, never quite found.

Wasn't so sure he wanted to go through it again – and for what? Yeah, so she was here now, but nothing between them had changed, had it? She was still Buffy, and he was still Spike, and no matter how many different ways he'd tried to work it out, that equation had never added up. Maybe if his name had been Angel—

But, no, better to leave that spiteful speculation alone. Bitterness wouldn't change anything.

And anyway, the whole sodding mess between them had been painful enough the first go-round, and he'd like to think that he'd eventually learned his lessons.

So that was that, wasn't it?

Still, it didn't feel like closure. Didn't even feel like resolve. Whatever label he tried to slap on it did nothing to change the hard core of anxiety knotted up in his gut.

Or, hell, maybe that was really just his damaged side still chewing on his nerves. Probably a bad reaction to all the melodrama.

Pained, he pressed a hand against his abdomen. Even before Illyria's helpful prodding, he'd been acutely aware that he wasn't anywhere near healed yet. Illyria's blood was still churning through him at high-voltage intensity, still binding and biting and mending. Potent healing stuff – with a sharp edge that completely lacked the comforting numbness of anesthetics. God-Kings, it seemed, were fuelled by fire and burning, not by peace.

Couldn't complain too much, though. She was what kept him going.

And didn't she damn well know it, too.

Another flare of pain in his side, but this time he welcomed the distraction. Focus on that instead. Concentrate on the hurts that could be healed, the wounds that could be put right again. And learn, somehow, to let go of lost causes.

The clicking tic-tic-tic sound of needletips bouncing over stone announced Puffin's arrival as readily as any footstep. "Sent you to check in on me, did she? Bloody hell, she's in an overbearing mood tonight."

Puffin ruffled his quills and chattered.

"Oh, sod off. What the hell would you know about any of it anyway?"

* * *

Her eyes opened – which was weird, because she didn't remember having closed them – and the way her vision briefly dipped and whirled was enough to make her nauseous. 

Buffy closed her eyes for a moment and willed the world to stop spinning. Taking a deep breath – which wasn't all that deep, really, and still it hitched uncertainly in her throat – she steadied herself and opened her eyes again. Still a bit of spin going on, but she tried to convince herself it was better. Better. Even though her vision was damped down in shades of black and grey, like peering through a dark cloth.

Memories spun in an equally sickening blur. Spike, silent, and blue Illyria, the blast of desert heat, like a furnace burning, so bright and hot—

And now cold sweat beaded on her brow, started trickling down the sides of her face like a trail of tears.

God, she was really getting sick, wasn't she? Not just exhaustion, not just injuries. Fumbling at the bulky bandage about her leg, she peeled back the edges to find a purulent smear bubbling beneath. Buffy tried not to retch at the sight, and bitterly considered that lately, it seemed like the only flavour her luck came in was 'bad.'

But she'd bounced back from worse than this, hadn't she? It was just that she usually had a soft bed, and food and drink to help speed the process. Here, at the hole-in-the-ground Roach Motel on the wrong side of the universe, there weren't so many amenities. So, of course, it made sense that it was taking her a little longer to recover.

Slowly pulling herself upright, Buffy looked around.

It was harder to see now. The small pile of stones that had provided light before seemed much dimmer now, and the stones themselves were spread out and fading into grey, slowly letting the natural darkness of the underground room reassert itself. Buffy felt a chill that wasn't entirely due to the coolness of her surroundings.

Once her eyes adjusted, Buffy could see Illyria standing with her back turned to her, seeming deeply engrossed in a staring contest with one of the massive stone pillars.

Buffy could only barely make out the mottled patterns carved into the stone. Maybe Illyria was reading those scrawls – hadn't she said something about it last night? – yesterday? – whatever the last time it was that Buffy had been awake. Something about a temple and signs. Did it matter? Probably not.

Peering into the surrounding darkness, Buffy also caught sight of the scraggly little thistle-creature, but nothing else.

"Where's Spike?"

The small creature looked towards her, dark eyes blinking, and gibbered like some kind of rabid squirrel. Illyria did not move, and did not answer.

Buffy raised her voice: "I said, where's Spike?"

Slowly, then, the blue-haired woman swiveled her head ever so slightly, sparing Buffy no more than a glance from the very edge of her peripheral vision, and then very deliberately, she turned back to her meditation.

"Hey! Did you hear me?!" The long echoes in the room amplified her strained unease into something that sounded like a challenge. It went unanswered, rolling back towards her through the cavernous darkness.

As silence fell again, Buffy felt abruptly small and inconsequential, her hands tightening into fists as if she'd be able to protect herself that way. If only she knew better where she was, or what was going on. If only she had her usual strength – or maybe even half of it— But she didn't. At the moment, she didn't have anything to go on, and all she could do was sit here and wait until she did.

Stay calm and wait, then. Don't let this place remind her of the caves beneath Sunnydale where she'd briefly died of drowning when she was sixteen – or the deep caverns where Spike had been trapped when Sunnydale fell apart. Don't think of the dark places.

There was movement from the corner of her eye, a shadow coming at her from the darkness, and her head snapped around. "Spike," she blurted, both startled and relieved. Thank god, something familiar.

For an instant, he seemed thrown off his stride, and then he continued towards her as if he hadn't faltered. He was carrying an armful of fabric. "Oh, good – you're awake," he said mildly. "Feeling any better?" Solicitous, and yet definitely detached, his face cut like stone, impossible to read.

"Y-yes," Buffy very nearly stuttered, taken aback, "a little better." And then lapsed into an awkward silence as his gaze dropped to her hands. Belatedly, she noticed how much they were shaking, and realized that he was taking it for weakness. Part of it was. "I don't know why it's taking me so long to heal," she admitted cautiously. "I'm usually not this weak—"

"It's the swords," he said. "Have a bite to them. I figure the Grushnalks must tip them with poison."

"She has not your strength," Illyria said, suddenly deigning to speak, her stern disparagement ringing through the room.

Buffy noticed that the look Spike gave Illyria was not unreadable stone – it was closer to amusement. He didn't argue with her, didn't say anything, and Buffy found herself miffed when she realized he wasn't even going to attempt to defend her. Not that she needed his support, but – but still...

She glowered at Illyria, glowered at him, but Spike's attention seemed to be elsewhere and he didn't notice. He handed Buffy the fabric he'd been carrying.

Puzzled, Buffy accepted the ragged rolls of cloth from him. "What are these for?"

"It's cold outside – and you're not dressed for it. You'll have to use these to cover up."

He was already garbed back in his black body armor, which she now realized was mostly just made up of many varied strips of leather wrapped around protective plating. Buffy watched him as he went over to the dull grey stones, carefully nudging a few of them back together again – once gathered together, each of the clustered stones suddenly cast a brighter light, and some of the surrounding gloom was pushed back.

Buffy blinked at the unexpected light. "How did you – what are those?"

"Not really sure," Spike replied absently. "When they're set together, they glow. But they also seem to have a mind of their own, and they always wander off eventually. Doesn't matter," he said, as if to shut down any further questions, "we'll be gone soon enough."

Returning to what looked like a small cache of weaponry, he retrieved a piece of spiked metal bracing, lashing it securely over one forearm. He tried to do the same with the other arm, fumbling awkwardly for a few moments, seeming oblivious to her scrutiny. "Help me out here, will you, Blue?" he sighed. "Left arm's still a bit out of sorts."

Illyria went immediately to his side to assist him.

Spike glanced back towards Buffy, almost cautiously. "How's your leg? Can you walk?"

"Yes," she replied sullenly, not certain that he'd meant the question as a challenge, and if she hadn't felt so out of her element, she might not have been so defensive. "But... but where are we going?" Buffy still felt as if she were more than three steps behind the two of them, and she wasn't sure if it was that, or her lingering injuries, that was causing the queasy uncertainty inside.

"We have to leave," Spike replied perfunctorily. "Not safe. We can't stay here."

"I know. I mean, I remember you said that – but... why do we have to go out there?"

"Because that's the way out," he said, patient. "And we can't stay here." Repeating it again, as if she were especially forgetful.

Buffy looked towards Illyria. _But can't she open doors in the air? Wasn't that how we got here in the first place?_ But that sounded so stupid, like something out of a fever-dream, and she didn't exactly remember how she'd got here – just that there'd been a portal – and Illyria was already staring down upon her as if she were nothing more than a stupid and ignorant child.

Frustrated and bewildered, Buffy dropped her eyes and picked anxiously at the fabric. It was shabby fragments of what seemed to be an old, old tapestry, but she couldn't make out any recognizable symbols or pictures. It was weird – just like everything else here. In spite of herself, her nose wrinkled and she struggled against a strong urge to sneeze. "It smells like... dust."

"Better that than frostbite," Spike replied, not quite meeting her eyes as he stepped forward and extended a hand to pull her to her feet.

Buffy caught her breath at the way that movement felt so much like dizziness, and then forcibly steeled herself, straightening her back and tightening her jaw. If there was one thing she knew, it was how to be strong. No weakness. Not in front of Illyria, and not in front of him.

Giving her a measuring look as if to make sure she wasn't about to topple over, Spike picked up the mouldering old tapestries and began draping them over her shoulders, winding and rearranging the threadbare fabric until he seemed satisfied. His eyes finally caught on hers, and something flickered in them, softened a bit. "You okay?"

"I'll manage," Buffy said, clutching at the fabric – it felt like a heavy weight of age and decrepitude. She pulled it tighter, looping some of it over her head in a hood. Her chin lifted, and she turned her gaze away from him. "I always do."

She wasn't sure if he felt the rebuke in her averted eyes; she wasn't even sure if she wanted to cause offense. At the moment, all she knew for sure was that she felt so awful, she couldn't distinguish one source of misery from another.

"Right, then," Spike replied evenly, picking up his metal quarterstaff. "Then we'd best get moving before Illyria leaves us both behind."

In spite of his words, Illyria had not moved at all. Buffy had the distinct impression that Illyria would never leave Spike behind anywhere, but that comment sounded catty, and she kept it to herself. No sense in making a fool of herself... at least, not until she was sure she absolutely had to.

"You're sure it's safe now, Blue?"

"Do not delude yourself," Illyria responded sternly, seeming more ill-tempered than before, if such a thing were possible. "The protections on this place yet remain, and what is in my power I have done to ward away detection, but we have tarried too long in this place. They know we are near – given time enough, we will be found. Therefore, it is expediency and not the dubious merits of easy escape that governs our retreat—"

"All right," he sighed, seeming worn out, "all right already, I get the point. We're going to have to make a break for it. So what are we waiting for?"

Buffy felt Illyria's piercing winter-eyed gaze fall briefly upon her, knew that fleeting look meant she expected she wouldn't be able to keep up. Spike also turned to look back at Buffy, seemed to register the sudden anger in her gaze, and quickly turned away again.

The prickly little creature chirruped something unintelligible to Buffy's ears – none of them said anything in response, but Buffy saw Spike's jaw tighten – and then it spun around, its long needles skittering noisily as it bounced up the stone staircase. Illyria followed in silence.

Spike glanced back at Buffy. "Come on, then," he said, his voice tinged with irritation.

Buffy didn't know which was worse – the idea of having to go up all those stairs with a weak leg that didn't want to bear weight, or the fact that nobody seemed to think she could do it. Spike was waiting for her, obviously intending to let her go first – but she didn't need someone walking at her back to protect her, wasn't some weak and helpless girl who needed to be hovered and fussed over and watched out for.

"I don't need you to look after me," she thought resentfully, and was surprised when Spike looked at her as if she'd spoken the words aloud. She wondered if maybe she had. "I can take care of myself."

A pause, and then he shrugged. "Suit yourself."

Turning, he followed after Illyria, and Buffy trailed behind him.

* * *

All her attention spent on stairs, on climbing them, on chasing after Spike and trying to keep pace, while ignoring the jarring pain in her leg. It felt like a repetitious dream, climbing upwards in the dark – when had it ever been so dark before? And why hadn't they brought one of those glowing stones with them? Then she remembered what Spike had said, and if those stones were somehow alive, then she was glad – or maybe almost glad – that they hadn't brought any with them. 

But it was dark, and it was exhausting, and no matter how hard Buffy tried to catch up with him, Spike felt very far away.

When she finally emerged at the top of the stairs into a large antechamber, her eyes were so tired of darkness that the gloomy light there seemed almost refreshing. The light came from the one narrow doorway that led outside – every other passage seemed to lead into different kinds of darkness.

She remembered that yesterday – was it only yesterday? – Illyria had brought her here, and they'd gone into one of the adjoining passageways, where there had been a small, murky current of leisurely-flowing water for her to drink. Her ears straining, Buffy thought she could hear that stream gurgling somewhere nearby... or maybe not. It crossed her mind that other things might be hidden here in the darkness, and she shivered and hurried after Spike.

Illyria had already gone outside – Buffy only just caught sight of her disappearing through the doorway, and Spike was already following hard on her heels. He paused briefly, as if to make sure she was still following, then went outside.

Though Buffy had felt the chill as they made their way up the staircase, still she caught her breath with surprise as she stepped out through the narrow doorway to find herself standing atop a barely discernible path skirting the edge of a perilous slope, high up in the wind and the air.

Cold.

Bitter cold.

There was a dreary half-light in the sky that was either dusk or dawn, but she couldn't tell which. The thick clouds lying low overhead felt near enough to touch, within easy reach if she stretched out her hand. Already, they were starting to dissolve into rainfall, and the misting raindrops seemed nearly solid, more than half-way to ice already, and the air felt chill enough to be trying to freeze her lungs.

"You all right?" Spike's voice coming again.

She couldn't quite find the breath to answer him, just tightened her grip on the tapestries, momentarily glad for the hood burrowing over her.

"Come on, then," he said and turned away, and Buffy trudged after him. Angry, miserable and confused.

She thought of that long-ago snow in Sunnydale, at Christmas, those big fluffy flakes that were like rain, that melted in her hair and on her face like tears. Snow like rain that had warmed her. But here, it was rain like snow that was freezing her. Ice now. Maybe everything turned to ice, here. Cold like Illyria. Like Spike...?

_Don't be stupid, Buffy. Don't be afraid. You came here, and – and you can do this. You can tell him how you feel, make him understand. Even if he's changed. Even if he doesn't want..._

Yet again, she stumbled over her feet and realized she was going to have to pay more attention to walking and staying upright. It was harder than it should have been – something was off-kilter inside of her, and that fever-hard edge deep inside was fast turning to frost.

Just walk. In a straight line. They were all doing it, so why couldn't she? All walking single file, and the porcupine was bouncing nimbly over the slick cold rocks as if it were easy. Like a Sherpa leading them alongside a cliff-side path. Like a sure-footed mountain goat.

God, she was tired.

And freezing cold. Even under the swaddling weight of the stinking, dusty swath of tapestry. Cold wind leaked through. Was making her fingers tingle. Lifting one hand, she closed her fingertips over the cold, cold stone in her necklace. Dawn, she thought, but her little sister was more than a world away from her now, as silent and unreachable as if she'd never been at all. Her eyes watered and turned to ice. Oh, Dawn. I don't know what I'm doing here.

The wind caught the hood of her makeshift robes, pulled it away from her like a streamer unfolding. Trying to snare it – so hard to see with the wind and her hair in her eyes – she turned around, then stopped in her tracks. Something else was moving behind them.

A man – or maybe what looked more like the shadow of a man – was prowling overtop the ragged stones of the mountainside. He – it – saw her scarcely a moment after she had seen him, and before she had a chance to say or do anything. He stopped, falling utterly motionless as his eyes locked upon hers, only his cloak batting about in the wind like black wings.

Transfixed, Buffy stared at the unnaturally dark skin, the way it seemed to swallow light, looking like the smooth gloom of night, as flat and featureless as a silhouette, except for the startling red-tinged eyes that were fixed upon her with such chilling attentiveness, even at such a distance. And the alarming white of teeth as his lips curled back in a snarl.

No stake in her hand, no sword at her side, and barely a clue of who was what and where or why in this strange world. But she still recognized danger when she saw it.

"Spike...?"

It was more question than warning, thready and uncertain, but she heard him curse – and then someone grabbed her elbow and her shoulder, had spun her around and was steering her firmly in the opposite direction, then dragging her into a run. Spike. Must have been Spike, because that thin figure now looking back towards her with the unearthly piercing eyes was Illyria.

"Where's the damn doorway?" Spike bellowed into the wind. Whatever reply Illyria might have given was lost to Buffy's ears, but Spike obviously had better hearing. "Then bloody well hurry it up! We've been spotted!"

Her feet were slipping – too high in her stupid heels, no grip on this rock – stumbling as she tried to keep up. Her bad leg jarred with every running step, and Spike had his hand knotted in the tapestries, holding her upright and hauling her alongside him, trying to make her go faster. But she sensed that neither of them was anywhere near fast enough to outrun that – whatever it was – and could all but feel the dark creature flying hellbent upon their heels, speeding over the rock-strewn expanse, and swiftly closing the distance between on them.

"Illyria!" Spike roared in desperation.

Buffy didn't see it when Illyria finally opened a door – she just felt it as they stepped into it, that stomach-turning, spinning feeling of airless free-fall – while behind them something roared rage and violence – and then the warmer air on the other side hit her like a furnace.


	11. Chapter 11: Coming Apart

Author's Notes: Thanks to my sis, Dorothy, for the beta (again). Also, last chapter, Dontia asked about what was happening with Dawn & Connor (yay! Somebody cares!), and there's a short and a long answer to that question. Short one is: that's another story (literally) that I'd planned to write concurrently, and then realized that was the quick way to a nervous breakdown. So, although it's partially written now, "Meanwhile, Back at the Ranch, starring Dawn and Connor" isn't likely to be posted until after this fic. :-) P.S. This chapter didn't turn out the way I expected it to. Buffy and Spike don't always respect my plot outlines.

Disclaiming again: BTVS doesn't belong to me, no profit is being made, and no copyright infringement intended.

* * *

**Chapter 11 : Coming Apart**

Things became confusing.

Maybe it was the portal – maybe it scrambled her brain just a little bit – maybe Illyria did that to her on purpose. Or maybe it was just that she was so tired, not a moment to catch her breath, and Spike had her knotted so tightly in those stale-smelling robes that she could hardly breathe.

They came stumbling through to somewhere else. On the outskirts of... some kind of a settlement. People? How could there be other people here?

It was hot. Steamy hot, riotous undergrowth.

All of a sudden, Buffy realized she was sweltering underneath her many layers of cloth. "Let me go. Let go of me," she growled insistently, pushing Spike away from her as she started to pull the dusty fabric away.

Spike caught her arm, held tight. "Not here." A distorted grimace on the mask he'd pulled down over his face. He looked strange. Unfriendly. Like a gargoyle or a devil, and it made her think of the Nigerian mask her mother had once hung upon the wall – a demonic mask that had worn people, possessed them and made them into puppets… "Too many locals about," Spike said, "and not many of 'em friendly. Wait a bit. There's a place we're headed to, not far—"

"Let go of me!" Slipped free of his grasp and caught his wrist instead, tried to twist it back, break it, tried to force him away, because it was cruel to keep her like this, wound up in this awful suffocating shroud and dying of heat—

"Buffy!" He'd never been faster than her before, never been stronger, but now he was both. Caught her up in front of him and held her arms folded tight against her, and his voice softened, "Buffy," gentler, low and soothing. The way he'd used to speak her name, and she couldn't help but stop to listen to it now. "It's not far, Buffy, I promise you. Calm down now, pet. I'm right here with you, okay?"

"We must continue," Illyria said, traces of impatience colouring her otherwise toneless voice.

"So go on, then," Spike replied, his anger unmistakable and all but sizzling through the overheated air. "We'll be right behind you." Voice lowering again, coaxing, "Come on, Buffy, let's go. It'll be all right." His words continuing on in a consoling hum, and Buffy stumbled alongside him, caught up in his arms and going where he lead her, while he kept on murmuring steady reassurances to her.

"Shouldn't have," she moaned when she caught a brief breath of sanity. Felt like she was floating in and out. "I mean me. I can't – there's something I… I don't know what's wrong with me, Spike. I didn't mean to… I didn't."

"Shush. It's okay, luv; it's all right. We're almost there. Don't worry; I've got you."

"But – but why…" The question she'd wanted to ask flitted away from her, leaving her empty and confused. "It's… so hot."

"I know." His hand brushed a sticky tendril of hair off her forehead. The coolness of his touch a tiny reprieve. "Can't be helped."

She thought she was vaguely aware of a hillside, that they were following a path that darted in and out of the overgrown greenery. Aware that he was following Illyria, who stalked along as fearlessly as if she owned everywhere she stepped, her head uncovered and her face unhidden. Unrestrained blue like the brilliant blue sky reeling overhead.

But where were they going? It didn't make sense. Why were they even here at all? She didn't want to go anymore, wondered if maybe she should try to tell Spike that. Wondered if he would listen. He was making her walk with him, but she didn't want to be here. Back home. Home. He could come with her, and everything would be better there. But it was so hard to concentrate – if only it weren't so hot – how could his voice sound so kind when he was keeping her captive like this?

They came to a place. Surreal. There was a horsey-faced creature, with a bad haircut and limbs that bent the wrong way. Tending a garden…? Not right. Couldn't be real.

Spike was saying something – not to Buffy now, he was speaking loudly, but it made no sense – it had that disjointed sound that demon languages sometimes had – and the peculiar creature started with surprise, then smiled at them.

Odd, Buffy thought, odd that they smile like humans smile. Odd.

All of their nonsense prattling words bounced around in Buffy's ears, made her dizzy, made her think she might fall over, but Spike still held her confined. At least he took pity, and began unravelling the cloying, heavy fabric, lifted it away and freed her, so she felt like she could almost breathe again. So hot already, like steam, and she was burning up.

Something else bounded forward – a small, quick creature of silky-black colouring. Buffy drew a sharp breath, for a moment thinking it was the same demonic pursuer that had just chased them from the mountainside – but then realized that this figure wasn't at all alike, not menacing, but undersized and delicate, with a face like a porcelain doll's.

The creature chattered in greeting, seeming deferential towards Illyria and friendly towards Spike, and then it laughed, a high delighted sound, when it turned its chalky white eyes on Buffy. "Is that a human? A real, true human?" The voice sounded like a young girl's. "It almost looks like—"

"It—" Spike caught himself, quickly correcting himself. "**She** is."

"I have not seen one of those since L.A.!"

It reached out towards her, hands scuttling lightly over her arm like the brittle black branches of a tree. Buffy smacked the little fingertips away. "Hands… off…" She wanted to be menacing, or even a bit dangerous, but only sounded cranky. Petulant.

"Oh! It's nasty!" the little-girl voice exclaimed in surprise.

"She's ill," Spike replied, sounding distracted. "Is it safe for us to stay, Moringot? For a few days, at most."

The strange little demon girl trilled something to the long-faced horse creature, got a response, and replied, "But he says that you and your liege-lady are always welcome here."

Liege-lady. Illyria. How ridiculous was that.

Buffy felt something boiling over within her, beneath the fever and the illness, because she was beginning to realize that there might have been a seismic shift since she'd last seen Spike, and whatever had been between them now felt all unsettled and rearranged, and she couldn't seem to find her footing in this new landscape. But she came all this way – she did so much to get here – and it was so unfair, burning through her vision. Hit her like a heat wave, made her topple sideways.

Voices from far away.

"What is wrong with it?"

"She's injured. We had a run-in with some Grushnalks." Hands on her shoulders, beneath her knees, sweeping her up in a painful, dizzying wheel of movement.

"…need a place to lie down, let her rest."

Clucking disapproval. "Vile bred-things…"

"…with me – get – and be quick about…"

The words were breaking into choppy fragments. She couldn't tell who was talking anymore.

It crossed Buffy's mind that she wasn't just a little bit sick, but really sick, maybe even with the 'deathly ill' variety. Wouldn't that just be stupid, if she came all the way here, and died in some hot, horrible hell dimension. And who would care? Who would tell Dawn? She'd come here by herself, so boldly and so foolishly, without even knowing the way back home. What if Dawn never found out what happened, what if she waited forever for Buffy to come back, and no one ever told her?

Buffy tried to reach for the green-stoned amulet, but couldn't make her arms work right, couldn't find it, her fingers crawling clumsy and confused.

No Dawn now, just another stifling darkness. Dark room, someone settling her down on something comparatively soft.

She was too tired to think about it any more.

* * *

She woke with a shriek in her throat. Someone tried to quiet her.

Wound at her leg was biting and burning, tinged a sour and spiteful blue, like Illyria. A putrid smell, something gone rancid. Oh God, that couldn't be good. And there was no corner store, no antiseptic, no sterile bandages, nothing to dull the pain…

Heat and fire could cleanse wounds – but wounded souls would burn in flame. What was she going to do? What could she do?

Hand on her shoulder, pushing her down, and it made her head spin.

"Calm down. Stay down. We'll take care of it."

No. No, she should do it. She should—

"Damn it, Buffy. Let me."

Okay. Okay.

Too sick now anyway. Weak. Maybe too late. Infection too deep.

"This is going to hurt."

What? What's going to—?

Pain. Oh god, if she hadn't known what it was before, she did now – indescribable, cut through and agony excruciating, and screaming shrilled in her ears—

* * *

Not alone. Someone was there.

She struck out with her fists; she could still fight; she could still kill.

Caught her flailing hands and folded them back down over her chest.

"Bad dream, luv. Bad dream. Go back to sleep."

Oh. Okay.

That was easier, anyway.

* * *

Loosening and tightening. Winding and weaving. A steady pattern of cloth and pressure. Maybe even vaguely familiar. She tried to make sense of it.

Someone was checking her wounds and binding them. It took her a very long time to recognize and understand that.

"Spike?" Voice was strange in her mouth, felt thick and unused.

"Yeah, I'm here."

Spike was there. Good…

She absorbed that thought, took a few lengthy minutes to formulate another one. "Where… am I?" She tried to sit up, didn't even manage it halfway, and fell back with a groan. Weak. Hot. Lightheaded. "And… what's wrong with me?"

"You were injured, remember? Took a few swordstokes – a particularly nasty one to the thigh."

She thought maybe she did remember, maybe she didn't. Kept quiet and listened and let small pieces of her sanity slowly trickle back to her.

Spike continued, "There was poison in the wound. Went deep." Though his voice was calm and even, she sensed an edge upon those words, a hint of tension that wasn't completely masked. "We've leached out as much of it as possible. There's not a lot more that we can do. You're almost through the worst of it now – but you're going to have to be strong for a little while longer, Buffy."

Be strong. Always strong. Always had to be.

Wait. We…? Who was 'we'…?

Oh yes. Blue girl. Unfriendly blue girl.

"'m tired," she murmured. Tired of that. Tired of being weak; tired of being strong. Tired of not knowing.

"Rest, then. I won't be far away—"

"No." Felt the rustle of movement as he stood, and she flung out her hand, clumsily catching onto him and holding tight. So hard to do. "Don't go." _I'm not ready for you to be gone._ "Wait. Stay with me. Please…?"

He said nothing, made no sound at all – so quiet when he wanted to be, no breath to give his presence away – but after a moment's pause, she felt him subside, slowly sitting back down beside her. Still, she didn't let go of him. Didn't trust him not to slip away.

Hot tear wandered down her cheek, felt like fever.

"I'm sorry," she whispered.

"Buffy," he sighed, sounding so defeated. Disentangling her hand from its awkward hold, he clasped it in his own. "It's okay. It's all right, Buffy. Try to rest. I'll stay here with you. As long as you need me."

* * *

When Buffy woke again, things felt clearer. Her leg didn't ache; there was no fever; her mind felt surprisingly clear, and she was beginning to be able to rearrange her chaotic memories back into something that resembled order.

And then cringed at what little she did recall of her spectacular collapse. God, as if it weren't embarrassing enough to fall completely to pieces like that – why, of all possible times and places, did it have to happen here and now, right in front of Spike? And, not to forget, also in full view of that stuck-up, unpleasant Illyria person… Ugh. That was definitely more than enough reminiscing for now.

Sleepily, she lifted her eyes halfway open. The room's one window was shuttered against the outside, but hot daylight streamed through the cracks and gaps in the ragged wood, partially illuminating a small, tumbledown room that she recalled only distantly from fever-scarred memories. She wondered how much time had passed, how long she'd been lying here. Spike, she remembered. Spike was here with her…

Biting her lip, she shut her eyes for a moment, then gathered her courage. Lifting her head – and inordinately pleased to feel no dizziness with that movement – she turned to look over at Spike. "Oh!"

The dark, pixie-like creature that had been sitting nearby almost bounced off the wall in shocked reflex, wide white pupil-less eyes goggling at her. The barbed little porcupine-animal only briefly ruffled its needles in a clacking sound, eyeing her with beady neutrality. Except for them, the room was empty.

"Where's Spike?" Buffy creaked out in startled surprise. Some distant corner of her mind considered the fact that ever since she'd jumped into this strange hell dimension, she'd kept going back to asking that same question over and over, still having to chase after him, no matter how near he was.

"Oh, so then you are alive after all!" the girl-creature chirped in an annoyed, scolding reaction. Her all-white eyes were weirdly disturbing, like a doll's eyes rolled permanently backwards. "But why did you want to screech so? It is not nice of you to spring up so unexpectedly like that."

"Where's Spike?" Buffy repeated, more forcefully this time.

That tone, at least, got the creature to stop its scolding. "Gone," she replied, in a childlike voice. "With his Lady. To make new friends."

Buffy shook her head, not understanding. "Gone? But… what…? Lady – you mean, Illyria?"

"Oh, I dare not presume to speak her name… but yes, she."

"Friends," Buffy echoed, still trying to chase down something substantial. "What friends?"

"New ones," the girl said simply. "But one never knows if they are truly friends until one tries to make them. For my part, I do not try; it seems too much effort by far, and by myself I do not have much charm." Pausing only long enough to take a breath, she continued, "I am Moringot. This," she gestured delicately to the bristly little ball of needles next to her, "is what they call Puffin. And you are named as Buffy?"

"Yes – yes, I'm Buffy," she replied distractedly, abruptly more concerned with the sudden realization that she was wearing a scratchy, short-hemmed shift that didn't do much more than cover the bare essentials, and only just that. "Where's my clothes?"

"I burned them."

"What?!"

"All drenched through with blood and festering, and Spike told me to put them to the fire, of course. One of the elder tapestries, too, it was ruined also. The Lady was not pleased. She said that you were like to wreak wanton waste upon everything you touch. Is that true, Buffy?"

"I – no. Don't call me that."

"Why? Is it not your name?"

"It is," she replied, completely flustered by now, "I mean, yes, it's my name – it's just, I don't— Wait. Stop." She stomped her bare foot on the hard-packed dirt floor, which felt almost as futile as it must have looked. "I am **not** having a conversation with you right now. I want some clothes. Now."

Puffin fluffed his quills in a leisurely, noisy flourish that she suspected was some bizarre way of laughing at her, and Moringot regarded her with flat-eyed thoughtfulness. "What kind of clothing do you have need of?"

"I don't care what kind," she started, then stopped herself. That would likely lead to disaster. "Like what Spike or Illyria wears. I want something like that. Something longer," she said, yanking the inadequate hem down as far as she could, "than **this** thing."

"Hmm," Moringot considered. "Hmm," she said again, turning the humming sound into a vaguely tuneful pattern, and wandered out of the room and away altogether. Whether or not she'd actually return with anything better to wear was anyone's guess, but at the moment, Buffy realized she didn't much care.

Buffy turned to glare at Puffin. "Go on," she urged, waving a hand at it, "shoo. Shoo!"

Maybe Puffin didn't understand "shoo," or maybe it simply wasn't inclined to leave just on her say-so, but Buffy was partly mollified when it at least trundled itself around, turning its back to her before hunching back down in the same spot.

Turning her back on it, she hurriedly looked herself over. Bruises on her arm were now an ashen yellow and green, already fast fading. Her back – stiff and sore, the skin pulling tightly if she stretched too far, but her fingertips could just brush against the scabbed, dry edges of the wound there, and she knew it was healing. Good.

And then the leg – that deep cut had been the worst of her injuries, and it had pained her the most. Though it didn't hurt now, she still had to see for herself. Quickly unwinding the bandage, she frowned. Where the blade had cut, there was now a long, livid mark running across her thigh, still raised and swollen, but that was to be expected – it was the drawn-out, discoloured strands that ran beneath her skin all around it that unnerved her. "What…?"

Definitely freaky-looking… but there was no pain when she prodded it. Spike – he'd spoken to her when she was sick – hadn't he said something about poison? Maybe it had been worse before; maybe this blotchiness was a big improvement. "Damn it, Spike," she hissed in frustration. He should be here. He'd said – if she was remembering things right, anyway – he'd said that he would stay.

But he'd gone. With Illyria. And left her alone here.

Okay, deep breath. Deep breath, and absolutely no freaking out, and take a quick reality-check. Of the good: abnormal skin blotches notwithstanding, her health was definitely on the upswing. Yay, for the Slayer-strength.

And of the not-so-good: she couldn't think of a way to spin her current circumstances as anything other than grim. Alone in the middle of a demon hell dimension, with no friends anywhere in sight, not to mention no weapons, and now with no decent clothes or shoes. That had to be some kind of Slayer record for going from bad to worse.

But, Buffy realized, her fingertips brushing against her neck, at least she still had the amulet Dawn had given her. Lifting it up, she examined it hopefully, but there was no spark of life in the green stone at its center. A fluttering of fear beat somewhere deep inside her, but she refused to acknowledge it.

It would work – when she needed it to. It would. She carefully tucked it back beneath her tunic, pressing a hand against it. Dawn would find her, would bring them all home. She was sure of it. She had to be.

* * *

When Moringot finally came back, she wasn't alone. The dauntingly tall creature that trailed behind Moringot had to stoop down to enter the room. It turned its long horse-head sideways, a dark eye rolling to look down at her. Opened its mouth and said… something incomprehensible.

"He says," Moringot warbled in her high, pleasant-sounding voice, "that you may make use of whatever suits you."

Buffy realized that the creature was carrying an assortment of fabric, and was holding it outstretched towards her. "Um… thank you, I guess," she said as she accepted the bundle, then looked uncertainly over to Moringot. "Tell him I said thanks."

Moringot twittered something that didn't sound at all similar to the other creature's disjointed language, but whatever she'd said seemed to have been understood. The tall creature bobbed its head several times and then withdrew from the room.

Moringot plopped herself down and watched Buffy with a bright empty stare. Puffin still sat stolidly in his corner without moving, maybe sulking or sleeping. Though Buffy certainly had no intention of getting undressed with either of those two on hand, she decided to at least look through the clothing they'd brought her. And she found herself unexpectedly glad that Moringot had returned – at the moment, she was the only living thing with whom Buffy could communicate.

It bothered her more than she cared to admit that Spike was gone again, that both he and Illyria had left her here alone. Or, alone with these strange creatures, anyway.

But she didn't ask about Spike; instead, she said, "So, you speak English…?"

"**You** speak English," Moringot corrected primly. "**I** speak many human tongues."

Buffy eyed her curiously. "But you were in L.A.?"

"I was. Until the fury of great powers fell upon us all and wrongly bore us away into this shadow-world. It has been most inconvenient." Her voice lifted into a questioning note. "But you seem scarcely one of us. How is it that you have come to be here, Buffy?"

"Mostly by my own stupidity," Buffy sighed. But that wasn't a subject she was going to discuss with some random little demon girl just because she was the only one available to talk to. "That other creature that just left here," Buffy said, shifting the focus of conversation, "does he have a name?"

"Hnablanor," Moringot replied, the cumbersome word rolling off her tongue with singsonging ease.

"Hanna-blan-er?" she tried in a halting voice.

Peals of musical laughter. "Ah ha ha, very amusing, yes, you are most comical!" After a few moments, her glee came to an abrupt halt, her white eyes blinking quick surprise. "Surely, that was intended to be mirthful, was it not, human girl?"

Buffy sighed, annoyed that the pint-sized creature seemed to have a perfect English vocabulary, even if it was overly wordy. "How about I just call him 'Hanna?'" she suggested.

Moringot gave an easy roll of her shoulders. "He is a good-natured sort and will no doubt not take offense, although I must say, your accent is very peculiar to my ears."

"I don't speak a lot of demon at home."

"Do you not?"

"Human, remember? We don't coexist with demons all that well," she said, abruptly reconsidering her words the moment she'd spoken them. Probably a topic she'd be better off not straying onto, considering her present surroundings.

She switched her attention to the clothing they'd brought her. It was an eclectic mix that didn't look much more promising than the threadbare tapestries that Spike had originally provided to Buffy: differing sizes, diverse fabrics, and some of the pieces were completely inexplicable. Seriously, what was this? – a giant five-legged dog sweater? Quickly tossing aside the flimsier pieces, she rummaged around for something more sturdy, maybe even battle-worthy, and then paused, becoming aware of a shadowy pattern splashed over more than one of them. "Where did you get these?"

"These," Moringot mused, flicking through Buffy's discarded choices, "are from the fallen."

"The fallen— what, you mean dead people?!" She dropped the piece she was holding, now clearly seeing the signs of mended tears, of repeated scrubbing to remove the odd discolourations that were likely spilled demon blood.

"They have no further need of garment or weaponry or adornment, cannot make use of any of it. If it needs be, why should we not?"

"I don't know," she mumbled cautiously, not wanting to offend, but still it made her skin crawl. "It just seems wrong."

"This is not L.A.; this is not your world," Moringot said in a chiding, singsong reminder. "There are none of your shops or boutiques anywhere in this sphere – and what mongers there are, they do not barter to your kind at all. You should be more gracious."

Gracious. She should be gracious for having her pick of the dress-like-a-dead-demon rag bin.

"It's… not that I don't appreciate this," she tried haltingly – lying through her teeth, because, ick. Several times over. But what other choice did she have? Run around half-naked as she fought her way through demon-land? Like she couldn't find a million things wrong with that plan.

Buffy scowled unhappily down at the clothing, trying to hide her distaste. "I didn't think of it that way. I'm just… not used to this place yet."

And she had no intention of sticking around long enough to get used to it, either. Collect Spike and Angel, and head on home – that was the plan. Just as soon as she figured out how to contact Dawn. And whenever Spike came wandering back from wherever he'd gone.

"You are new." Moringot seemed all sunny disposition once more. "I am not. I must learn patience."

"When will Spike be back?" Buffy finally asked.

"When he and his Lady come back."

Buffy grit her teeth. Apparently, Moringot wasn't the only one who had to learn patience. She tried another topic. "What about Angel? Do you know him, do you know where he is?"

"No, I know nothing of any angels. Is this a secret you may tell?"

Another dead end. "Okay, then Illyria," Buffy said. "What can you tell me about Illyria?"

"The Lady? Oh, she is… She is…" Buffy was sure that this was the first time she'd seen Moringot suffer an inarticulate moment. "She is the embodiment of great age and greater power. Beautiful and terrible, like all those bygone things that were."

Exactly what did that mean? "So… you're a fan," Buffy summarized.

Moringot's head tipped back and forth, like the pendulum of a clock, in something that might have been indecision. "One knows one's place and does not argue with power," she replied ambiguously, her bone-white eyes flicking over towards Puffin, who had not moved, had not stirred. "Respect is required. But perhaps," she continued, her voice lowering almost to a whisper as she rose to her feet, leaning very close to Buffy's ear – and Buffy had to forcibly keep herself from drawing back – "perhaps it is not wise to be too near to her. But neither is it wise to set yourself against her."

That had the unmistakable sound of warning. "And Spike," Buffy couldn't help asking, "is he… close to her?"

"Oh yes," Moringot agreed, settling back onto the floor and resuming her usual singalong manner, "if he is here, then she is near. And if she is here, then he is not far. It is never one without the other; always they keep company together."

"Hmph." Her breath huffed out a little too forcefully to be noncommittal. "What's that supposed to mean?"

Moringot's head canted slowly sideways as she regarded her. "Is there some defect in my manner of speaking? It is your language I am using."

"That's not – I mean, I know. I know, okay? It's not that I don't get what you're saying – it's just that I—" She stopped herself. "It's confusing. You put your sentences together weirdly," she said defensively, too quick and too sharp, and her irritable tone probably wasn't making her any friends. She drew her hand over her eyes, trying to find a quick way out of this awkward conversation. "I just need some rest, that's all. I'm tired." _Tired of talking to you._ "Can you go away now?" It was rude, she knew it was rude, but she didn't care.

Buffy took little notice as Moringot agreeably bounced to her feet and went away, too absorbed in her own thoughts.

Before coming here, she'd thought long and hard about what had gone wrong between Spike and her, about mistakes made and missed opportunities and second chances. She'd believed that if she could just find her way back to him again, then she'd say all the things she should have said before, and somehow – magically – it would all be all right.

But she'd already found Spike – and they'd hardly spoken at all, and when they did, he'd been strange and standoffish – and now he was gone again. With Illyria.

She hadn't expected that she would have to catch him, or convince him. Hadn't expected to find him here partnered off so close and cozy with Illyria, and for the life of her, Buffy couldn't imagine what he saw in her. Because Illyria was a stone-cold bitch. Totally not his type.

Her preoccupation came to an abrupt end when Puffin startled her by unexpectedly whirring into motion. The small creature's sudden burst of activity came at the same moment as the sunlight streaming outside the window began to shift and sputter like a faulty, flickering light bulb well on its way to dying.

Buffy rose to her feet, some jaded, detached piece of her only exasperated and wondering, _what now? _But when she opened the window, she drew back in disbelief at the sight of the billowing, chaotic sky. Night and day impossibly churning together in a bizarre storm front.

An almost painful spark on her skin as, at her throat, her necklace flared a fitful green sparkling, briefly beating the same uneven tempo – Buffy caught at the talisman, breathing, "Dawn?" – and outside, daylight disappeared.


End file.
